



"-ovc,^^ 
















^d 



t • < 






















"W* / 











\/ /^ 








«o* ^V 













v^;^ 




v-^^ 




















^ r ^^^. 








i MEMOIR 

AND 

REMAINS 



W. S. GRAHAM. 




^^ Q D. (L Q ^ m 



S L^ /\\ Ira A M 



REMAINS 



OP 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM 



WITH A 



MEMOIR 



When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earih. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth. 



Halleck. 



EDITED BY 

GEORGE ALLEN, 

PROFESSOR OF LANGUAGES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA.. 



PHILADELPHIA : 
J. W. MOORE, 
93 CHESTNUT STREET, 
. 1849. 



T5 I'/^l 



Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1849, in 
the office of the Clerk of the District Court for the Eastern District 
of Pennsylvania. 



Isaac Ashmead, Printer. 



ADA^ERTISEMENT 

BY' THE EDITOR. 



A few words seem necessary to explain the circumstances, 
under which this volume is presented to the public. 

The course of Mr. Graham's life, retired as it was, had 
been such, that a large circle of friends had become interested 
in the promise he gave of literary distinction. Classmates, 
pupils, associates in teaching, and personal friends had for 
years anticipated the time, when one who had produced so 
much that was beautiful and valuable in mere play, would 
come advantageously before the public in some mature and 
finished work. What he had thus far done had been entirely 
occasional — hastily written to meet the demands of the 
literary association, of the social circle, and of private affec- 
tion — and had been valued chiefly for what it promised. But 
when his early and premature death occurred, his friends, in 
the disappointment of their higher hopes, turned back in 
thought to what he had already accomplished, and the desire 
grew upon them to possess, in a collected form, even those 
hasty and private productions, which, in fact, they had hither- 
to known only in part. 

In the mind of no friend of Mr. Graham's could the desire 
of producing a memorial of his character and genius be felt 
so strongly, as in that of her, who was mourning his loss ; and 
constituted as her mind was, there needed no more than the 
consciousness that such a desire was shared by others, to 
arouse her from her desolation to an earnest — a painfully 
earnest — effort to realize it. Appeal was made to me for 
advice. I had been associated with Mr. Graham during the 
whole of his connection with Delaware College as a teacher, 



iv ADVERTISEMENT. 

and a still closer intimacy had afterwards growTi up between 
us. While fully sharing-, therefore, the desire of his other 
friends, I might, under different circumstances, have express- 
ed myself decidedly against the proposed attempt, from the 
conviction that "Remains" are generally unsatisfactory to 
the public and unjust to the deceased. But in this case I 
felt confident, that while the memory of one friend would 
not suffer by the character of even his hastiest productions, 
the mind of the other could best be saved from preying on 
itself by an employment, which, without withdrawing her 
thoughts from their one object, would at the same time keep 
them in a healthier activity. I did not hesitate, therefore, to 
second the design of making a selection of Mr. Graham's 
various occasional productions, and of preparing a Memoir, 
that should contain specimens of his correspondence. 

The purpose had been formed with entire forgetfulness of 
self; but, upon beginning to execute it, trying difficulties 
occurred. Those which grew out of distrust of ability and 
inexperience in authorship were overcome by the promise, on 
my part, of giving all the assistance that should be required, 
even to the extent (if necessary) of composing the Memoir 
myself out of the materials that might be furnished. But a 
more serious difficulty arose from the apprehension of being 
thought to violate a proper reserve, and fi'om the still more 
grievous sacrifice of feeling, that was involved in submitting 
to the public eye letters and poems, that had been intended 
for one eye alone ; and yet, without such sacrifice, what 
justice could be done to the heart or the genius of the de- 
ceased 1 So habitual and constitutional had been his reserve, 
where the expression of feeling was concerned, that even his 
most intimate friends could have no conception of the ab- 
sorbing fervor of devoted affection, with which his soul be- 
came possessed, without seeing these expressions of that 
affection. That grievous sacrifice, therefore, I could not 
hesitate to recommend as for these reasons absolutely neces- 
sary. That Mr. Graham's reputation, for intellectual ability 
and even for metaphysical acuteness, would gain, rather than 
lose, by the publication of letters of a class that are generally 
expected to contain more of sentiment than of intellect, I 
was well assured ; for such was the peculiar constitution of 
his mind, and such the character of its activity at that period, 
that he was sure to bring to bear at once all that was in him, 
as a poet and a philosopher, in the attempt to express the ful- 
ness of the devotion, with which he made the offering of his 
whole being to another. And, at all events, if it should be 



ADVERTISEMENT. V 

thoug-Jhit, that a proper reserve has been violated in this mat- 
ter, the blame should rest with me. 

The Memoir, undertaken under such circumstances, was 
composed upon the plan of recording such biographical facts 
as could be recovered, and of embodying letters and some 
occasional poems, without strict regard to proportion or finish 
of style, such considerations being deferred to a subsequent 
revision. The work was soon done. It had been carried 
through by a strong effort, which had not been able, however, 
always to command the same degree of attention and power. 
On a careful perusal, various portions were, therefore, pointed 
out as requiring to be corrected, or condensed, or entirely re- 
cast. The attempt was made, but failed entirely. The 
power of the first impulse having been exhausted, it was found 
impossible to grapple with the subject again. I took into my 
own hands, therefore, the work of preparing the manuscript 
for the press : but, considering what must be the real ground 
of its claim on the interest and sympathy of the reader, I 
could not bring myself to do more, than to make the slightest 
and most necessary corrections, and to reduce the various 
parts to their proper proportions, by such retrenchments and 
omissions, as could be made without interrupting the con- 
tinuity of the narrative. 

A large number of Mr. Graham's Poems were transcribed 
and submitted to me, with liberty to make such omissions as 
the character and size of the publication might seem to me 
to require. In exercising the authority thus given to me, I 
was governed by the consideration, that the book was in- 
tended chiefly as a memorial for Mr, Graham's friends, and 
that accordingly it would even perhaps have been privately 
printed for distribution amongst them, if, scattered as they 
were — those who had been his pupils, especially — over many 
States, it had been practicable to put it within their reach, 
except by publication in the ordinary way. I was conse- 
quently decided to retain many pieces, without looking criti- 
cally to their poetical merit, by the knowledge that they 
would possess a special value in the eyes of not a few, who 
had an interest in the subject, or were aware of the circum- 
stances under which they were composed. I even took it 
upon me to insert, from other sources, several poems of a 
lighter character, which had not been transcribed for me. 
This was done, under the impression, that otherwise Mr. 
Graham's friends would feel that his poetical character and 
habits had been imperfectly represented — so ready had he 
always been to versify a joke for their amusement, or to ex- 



Vi ADVERTISEMENT. 

temporize acrostics, with untiring good humor, for the little 
album of a school-girl. 

The specimens of Mr. Graham's Translations are printed 
for similar reasons, and not with the view of forcing them 
into comparison with what has been done by others. They 
were, for the most part, composed in connection with a circle 
of friends engaged in the study of German, who competed 
with each other in versifying their favorite poems. To such 
friends, therefore, they must be more interesting than even 
original productions of equal merit. I may add, that the spe- 
cimens of Horace too have their personal relations: they 
were composed, for the gratification of one, to whom the best 
of his original poetry was also devoted. 

I have printed nothing with so much hesitation as the two 
prose fragments, with which the volume closes. The long 
and carefiilly labored Essay on Imputation having been re- 
jected, as out of keeping with the other contents of the 
volume, these two seemed to be the best available specimens 
of Mr. Graham's ordinary style of Prose. It was much re- 
gretted, that no copy of the two other, and far more interest- 
ing, parts of the Essay on Coleridge, which had been com- 
municated to the Society, before which the first was read, 
could be found ; and in re-writing his Essay on Rhythm, for 
a friend, he had only completed the introduction. I much 
fear, lest these specimens may do Mr. Graham injustice, for 
they may appear to some to promise what he was not able to 
perform. But it was not so. He had fully matured these 
subjects in his mind, and had communicated the results clearly 
and satisfactorily to others ; but the manuscripts from which 
he spoke, rather than read, however full and methodical they 
might be, were prepared only as guides in such oral commu- 
nication, and were not adapted, either in form or finish, for 
the eye of a reader. 

Having thus stated, with (I fear) a wearisome particularity, 
the circumstances under which this volume appears before 
the public, I have only to add, that if the reader should fail of 
discovering sufficient grounds, in the kind or amount of the 
work I have done, for putting my name on the title-page, he 
is not more at a loss, in that respect, than I am myself It 
has been done in obedience to the earnest injunction of an- 
other ; and I am reconciled to it only in so far as it bears wit- 
ness to the interest which I take in the memory of one, who 
had honored me with his friendship, and to the confidence 
reposed in me by the survivor. 

G. A. 
March, 1849. 



CONTENTS 



MEMOIR, 

POETICAL REMAINS, 

Friendship, 

For a Sister's Album, 

The Spirit's Home, 

The Swallow, 

To Margaret Davidson, 

Philopoena, 

"Pq * * * 

To E. D. G. . 

The Drying of the Elbe, 
Sequel to the foregoing*. 
Dancing, . 

"Pq * * * 

Pindaric Ode, 

To * * * , 

rpQ :fs * jjs 

On the Death of an Infant, 
To her of whom it is true. 
To M. B. J. . 
To Margaret M * * * 



Page. 

13 

157 
159 
162 
165 
167 
169 
171 
174 
176 
181 
183 
185 
189 
191 
194 
196 
197 
200 
201 
202 



yjji CONTENTS. 




Sonnets. . . . The Serenade, 


203 


Bear on, . 


. 204 


Rejoice, .... 


205 


The Smile, . 


. 206 


ToE. D.G. 


207 


To E. D. G. . 


. 208 


Wordsworth, 


209 


Wordsworth, . 


. 210 


An Infant's Epistle, .... 


211 


To My Wife, .... 


. 212 


To S. M. G 


213 


To Mrs. Bose, .... 


. 214 


On receiving a pair of embroidered slippers. 


. 216 


Valedictory, .... 


. 218 


TRANSLATIONS. 




Horace — Book i. Ode xiii.. 


. 226 


Book iii. Ode x., . 


228 


Book i. Ode xv.. 


. 230 


Lessing — The Glow-worm, . 


232 


Life, .... 


. 233 


Goethe— The Fisher, 


234 


The Magician's Apprentice, . 


. 236 


Schiller — Honor to Woman, . 


241 


The Division of the Earth, . 


. 245 


Korner — My Fatherland, 


247 


Uhland — The Boy of the Mountain, 


. 249 


ESSAYS. 

Coleridge, Part i., . 


. 252 


Rhythm, ..... 


269 



MEMOIR 



William Sloan Graham was born near New London, 
Chester Co., Pa., April 23, 1818. He was the third son of 
the Rev. Robert Graham, pastor of the Presbyterian church 
of New London, a most excellent man, the memory of whose 
faithful services for many long years is still affectionately 
cherished by that people. 

This father, judging- from the manner in which his son 
ever spoke of him, exercised over his whole family a remark- 
ably happy uifluence. He moved among* them as a spu-it 
purified by constant communion with heaven. As it was in 
the days of the patriarchs, so was it here ; the will of their 
father was the highest authority his children knew upon 
earth. Their sleeping chamber adjoined his study, and be- 
fore daybreak in the morning, or in the silence of midnight, 
the children were accustomed to hear his voice ascending in 
earnest supplication for them, to "our Father which art in 
Heaven." Such was his devotion to their eternal interests, 
that he never allowed a day to pass without calling some one 
of his little flock to his side, and conversing and praying with 
them alone ; and rarely upon these occasions did they sepa- 
rate without both parties being melted to tears. 

His mother, whose name was Ann Ross, was the daughter 
2 



j^ MEMOIR OF 

of John Ross, of London Grove, of the same county. She 
was a diffident but intellig-ent woman; an active, cheerful 
Christian, enjoying uninterrupted good health ; and with her 
courage and counsel upheld her husband when in the course 
of his arduous duties his spirits failed. Upon her devolved, 
in an especial manner, the care of the family. To her the 
children were accustomed to turn for every want. Under 
her direction they worked or played, while the father, visit- 
ing his parishioners, or preparing his sermons, came among 
them only at stated seasons to speak the words of approbation 
or reproof, or to minister to their spiritual wants. 

William's very delicate constitution, rendered him a con- 
stant source of anxiety to his parents. He was reared and 
watched like a pet flower. The germs of disease were 
stifled in the bud. The tenderest precautions ever surround- 
ed him. As he grew older, his health improved, and from the 
time he was twelve years of age, continued unimpaired. As 
a child, his amiability of temper and liveliness of talent, se- 
cured to himself the warm attachment of his whole family. 
His elder sister says, " Though fond of play and very active 
at times, he was decidedly a quiet child, and always fond of 
reading. He used to steal into Papa's study to get rid of 
noise and interruption. Oh how plainly can I hear ' William' 
called, and called in vain ; then hear the reply, ' You might 
know he is in Papa's study.' And when there were gentle- 
men staying with us, I can remember how he would noise- 
lessly sit m a corner of the room, listening to every word ; 
until my father would often say playfully to hun, ' You little 
rogue, you hear too much.' " 

At this period, in company with his brothers, he attended 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. jg 

a country school near his father's residence, and continued 
to do so until the autumn of 1828. When a little over ten 
years of age, he entered New London academy. 

This institution, justly celebrated for having been one of 
the earliest of its kind in our country, and for having trained 
many of its most distinguished and worthy men for useful- 
ness, had been neglected, and at the period of which we are 
speaking, had long been closed. The Rev. Mr. Graham 
feeling a father's anxiety for the education of his numerous 
sons, by his strenuous efforts partially revived the school. 
He was appointed nominally its principal, and authorized to 
procure a teacher. This he did, and on its being again 
organized, among the first scholars was found the subject 
of our memoir. 

The day on which, for the first time, William rode by his 
father's side to this academy, was an era never forgotten. 
Over and over again, in the hours when, free from care, he 
would commence one of those long talks which made the 
happiest moments of our married life, would he revert to this 
day, and describe his childish delight, his curiosity to see 
what an "academy" was like, his thousand questions, his 
father's teasing and stimulating answers, and his own aroused 
ambition. The scene is before me now in all the vividness 
of reality which his eloquent and poetical description could 
give. 

His fondness for poetry early developed itself His first 
teacher in the academy, a young man of the same name, of 
prepossessing appearance and cultivated mind, took a deep 
interest in the instruction of his gifted but delicate looking 
pupil, and lent him, with some prose works, Pollock's Course 



IQ MEMOIR OP 

of Time. This was the first book of poetry that William had 
ever seen. He seized upon it with avidity, and retiring to 
a spot secure from interruption, pored over it with delight. 
Pope's works next laid claim to his admiration. The mea- 
sured strains of this poet were conned over and over, and 
with a most retentive memory, stored away for future use. 
He also attempted imitations of the style of Pope, which for 
rhythm and metre would have done credit to maturer years. 
But the early efforts of his genius were rather crushed than 
cultivated. Unlike the course pursued by Mrs. Davidson, 
with her gifted daughters, the elder Mr. Graham discouraged 
by every means in his power, save absolute command, these 
" flashings of poetic fire," and advising such studies and pur- 
suits as would tend to strengthen his judgment and regulate 
his sensibilities, sought to impress upon the mind of his son 
a contempt for the lighter pursuits of literature, and to subject 
him alone to the stern discipline necessary to make a scholar. 
By constantly presenting before him examples of wasted 
talent, perverted morals and unhappy lives, the result, as he 
esteemed it, of an over indulged imagination, he sought to 
win him from what he considered a dangerous and time- 
wasting pursuit. Whether the course thus adopted be a 
wise one, in all cases, may admit of a question, but it is cer- 
tain, that its effect upon William's character was good. It 
did not check his v^Titing entirely, but by its restrictions, 
preserved the healthy tone of his mind, and kept him free 
from any tinge of that sickly sentimentality, too apt to abound 
in the early productions of a " boy of genius." Although this 
course could not destroy his love of reading and rhyming, it 
influenced him sufficiently to cause the destruction of all the 
pieces written at this period. 



WILLIAM S, GRAHAM. ^y 

The father of Mr. Graham, like most ministers of country 
congregations, derived the means of supporting his family, 
in part, from a farm which his sons assisted in cultivating. 
From a share of these labours William was not exempted. 
He performed his duties with cheerfulness, but it was very 
evident that his books were the objects of his deepest inte- 
rest. As time passed on, the love of study that he displayed, 
became a source of pride and pleasure to his family, and his 
health still continuing delicate, his regular walk to school 
was seldom interrupted by duties at home, and a morning 
and evening look after the horses became his only care. In 
his after life, he often referred to this daily walk to and from 
school, and the simple dinner carried in his pocket, as the 
cause of the decided improvement in his health, and the 
power of abstinence from food, which characterized his ma- 
turer years. 

Up to this time he had manifested no particular interest in 
the subject of religion. He was regular in his attendance 
upon public worship, giving his undivided attention to the 
services of the sanctuary, and exhibiting many of the out- 
ward traits of the Christian character. A very enthusiastic 
and devoted Christian, whose light shone brightly wherever 
she moved, and which soon after was perfected in heaven, 
visiting at his father's house, remarked to his sister, " I do 
fear so much for your brother William ; he reminds me con- 
stantly of the young man in the gospel, he is so lovely. I 
can talk to most non-professors, but for some reason I cannot 
find words to suit him, and I constantly feel that he is better 
than myself — profession and all." But the prayers of his 
father had found acceptance at the mercy seat, and the Spirit 
2* 



jQ MEMOIR OF 

of God had begun a good work in liis heart. Ever silent 
upon any subject in which his feelings were deeply interest- 
ed, his family suspected not the state of his muid, until his 
father, going into the stable one morning, found hid in the 
rack the following paper : 

RULES TO GOVERN MY CONDUCT. 

In the morning when I awake, having silently returned 
thanks to the Lord for my preservation through the night, 
and asked him in mercy to keep me from all evil through 
the day, I will rise, and having washed myself and done 
my work, I will return to my room and read a chapter in the 
Bible, and contemplate the truths therein contained; then 
kneeling down, I will pray to my Father who seeth in 
secret, believing that I shall be rewarded openly. 

I will then address myself to my lesson, and endeavour 
never to go to school in the morning until I know it perfect- 
ly, and having eaten my breakfast, I will go to school. 

In the evening, when I return from school, I will imme- 
diately attend to my work, and then retire to my room, 
where, if it be light enough, I will read a chapter in the 
Testament, (and if not, omit it,) and having considered its 
meaning, I will think over all I have done this day, and pray 
for pardon wherein I have erred, and grace to enable me to 
do so no more. Having finished my prayer, I will join my 
studies. If supper be ready when I come home, I will defer 
these duties, or rather privileges, until after it. 

At noon — I will read a chapter in the Testament, and if 
an opportunity offers, I will kneel down to prayer, but if not, 
I must be content to pray in my heart. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 2 9 

Towards my teachers and fellow-scholars, I will endeavor 
to be kind and obliging — obeying the former — assisting the 
latter. As to stealing— never to take the least that is not 
my own without permission. 

As to lying — never to deceive in any way. 

As to fighting — to yield rather than quarrel, and to forgive 
an injury. 

As to respect to superiors — to obey without murmuring. 

Finally — to avoid all known sin — to perform all known 
duty — having sinned, to pray for pardon, and resolve to be 
more cautious in future. 

May God enable me to perform each of these resolutions for 
Christ's sake. When circumstances will not permit their lite- 
ral fulfilment, I will ask myself how God would have me do, 
and act accordingly. 

Sunday, October 27, 1833. 

This paper, given literally as it was found, and preserved 
by an elder sister, is a transcript of the simplicity and sin- 
cerity of his character, his anxious desire to do what was 
right, his firm adherence to duty, and the minuteness and 
accuracy with which he made out plans for his own or others' 
improvement. Although the cares of a large academy, and 
the fascinating pursuit of literature, caused him, before many 
years, to leave off his strict adherence to the first part of 
these rules, it is very certain that his intercourse with his 
fellow-men was marked by a most scrupulous observance of 
the latter. Honest in his dealings with all, scrupulous in his 
attention to interests confided to his care, the spirit of truth- 



20 MEMOIR OF 

fulness sat throned upon his brow, and shone in every glance 
of his clear blue eyes. 

But more especially in the matter of deference to superiors 
was he remarkable for his adherence to this resolution. The 
organ of Veneration was, to speak phrenologically, of promi- 
nent development in his character. Agree mg with Dr. Parr 
in the sentiment, that "a scholar should know no higher 
earthly authority than his teacher," and exacting from his 
pupils implicit obedience, he practised as well as preached 
the doctrine ; and to old age, to parents, elder relations, the 
officers of the church, and the powers that be, wherever 
found, he ever felt and displayed the highest respect and 
obedience. Indeed, the most strikmg charm of his character 
seemed to consist in the beautiful harmony of this loyalty, 
humility and gentleness, with uncommon decision, indomita- 
ble energy, and a strength of will that conquered every 
obstacle with which it came in contact. 

A short period after the date of these " Rules," in company 
with a younger brother, William applied for admission as a 
member of the church of which his father was pastor. The 
occurrence is thus related by his uncle. " The elder Mr. 
Graham being absent, the Session, after the usual form, pro- 
pounded several questions to the youths before them, in refe- 
rence to their religious impressions and experience, which 
were answered clearly and definitely. Objection being 
made, however, upon the score of their extreme youth, they 
were informed that their admission was postponed for a year, 
as they were then too young. With a timid glance and fal- 
tering voice, William inquired, ' Are we too young to die V 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 21 

'No,' was the reply. 'If, then,' he rejoined, 'within the 
next twelve months we are called to appear before the bar 
of God, and the question is asked, Have you partaken of the 
body and blood of the Lord T upon whom shall the blame 
be laid V There was no response to the query, but pleased 
with the spirit and thoughtflilness evinced, after further de- 
liberation the Session admitted them." 

This profession he never dishonoured. He ever possessed 
a firm and calm assurance of the truth of religion. He often 
remarked, comparing his own experience with that of others, 
that he had " never known the first doubt." The doctrines 
that his father preached, the precepts of the Bible that his 
mother taught, and the rules of the church of which he was 
a member, were sacred and inviolable in his eyes. A serene 
and joyful faith illumined his soul, and shone visibly in every 
action of his daily life. A tone of religious sentiment was 
early manifested in his character. But it was not sentiment 
only. His strongest reasoning powers were brought to bear 
upon this most important of all subjects, and the result was 
a conviction of the truth, which it was impossible to shake. 
It was justly said of him, " His confidence of salvation re- 
posed on a crucified Saviour. His was a mind that took 
nothing for granted. Though the son of pious parents, and 
carefully educated in the principles of our faith, yet these 
principles had by him been subjected to the severest scrutiny. 
The divinity and atonement of the Son of God, pardon, justi- 
fication and eternal life through faith in his merits, the 
renewing and sanctifying influences of the Holy Spirit — 
these were the doctrines he cordially embraced, and here 
was the sole foundation of his hope and trust. The uniform 



22 MEMOIR OF 

testimony of all who knew him was, that his life had always 
been in accordance with his profession." 

In the fall of 1834, Mr. Graham became a student in 
Delaware (then Newark) Colleg-e. He entered as a Junior, 
but recited once, and often twice a day, with the Sophomore, 
besides attending to the studies of his own class. The Pre- 
sident of the colleg-e, referring to this period, says, " He had 
hardly entered college before his uncommon talents attracted 
general attention. Not only his class-mates, but the whole 
college yielded the palm to him in the art of composition. 
His first Essay was a poem, displaying remarkable genius 
and wit.* During his whole course his position in the Col- 
lege scale for Scholarship, Industry, Character and Conduct, 
was No. 1. He was one of the most active founders of the 
Athensean Society of the college, and took a prominent 
share in its debates." His studies and recitations occupied 
him from fourteen to fifteen hours a day, yet he found time 
to write many poetical essays and translations. His exer- 
cises for college speaking were always poetical, and consist- 
ed of translations, parodies or original poems. There is 
among his papers a parody on Hamlet's Soliloquy, with a 
note indicating that it was written and spoken a month 
after his arrival at college, and that it afforded much amuse- 
ment to the students. Mr. Graham was natural^ very diffi- 
dent. Later in his life contact with the world gave him 
dignity and confidence, but it is easy to imagine the bashful 
boy at the period of which we are speaking, with his pale 

* It was styled " Newark," and it is much to be regretted that 
its local and personal allusions unfit it for publication. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 23 

intellectual face rising- up among his fellows, and thus giving 
vent to his feelings : 

To speak — or not to speak — that is the question : — 
Whether 'tis nobler, in the appointed student, 
To rise up manfully before his fellows ; 
Or to refuse through dread of shame or trouble, 
And playing truant 'scape it 1 To rise — to speak, — 
No more ; — and thus by speaking to o'ercome 
That childish fear and awkward bashfulness, 
To which young speakers are sure heirs, becoming 
Good orators — sure 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To rise, — to speak, — 
To speak ! — perchance to fail ; — ay, there's the rub ; — 
For in this speaking divers ills may come 
When we've forgot a line, or made a blunder. 
This gives us pause. There's the respect. 
That makes calamity of such an act ; 
For who would bear the sneers of those around. 
The hisses of his fellow-students, and the scorn 
Of all his hearers, disregarding rules. 
The jeers of the professors, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make 
By being absent 1 Who would suffer this — 
To stumble through a half-got speech ; 
But that the dread of something afterward, 
(A Monday evening summons to receive 
A private reprimand,) puzzles the will ; 
And makes us rather bear the ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we hate the more ] 
The Faculty makes cowards of us all ; 
And thus our resolution not to speak 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
(To sally forth to visit ladies fair,) 
By this consideration turned away. 
Are never born to get the name of action. 
1834. 



24 MEMOIR OF 

During the two years that he remained in college as a 
student, his attention to his studies was unremitting and his 
character unsullied. He early manifested that preference 
for the study of intellectual and moral philosophy which cha- 
racterized him in after life, but in the higher branches of 
mathematics he held a distinguished rank, and by universal 
consent sustained the reputation of a generous, honourable, 
and pious youth. 

His attachment to his immediate relatives still continued 
very strong. His visits to his family were hailed with de- 
light by his parents, and every young face beamed with joy 
when William came home. He very often, during his first 
year in college, would walk the eleven miles between New- 
ark and his father's residence, and surprise them by a Satur- 
day night visit, saying, " I was so home-sick I could not stay 
away any longer." One of his elder brothers would then 
rise before day on Monday, and ride with him to college in 
time for prayers. Independently of the amount of writing 
necessary for college exercises, Mr. Graham employed his 
talent for versification upon every subject that came within 
his reach. His portfolio overflowed with the fruits of his 
leisure hours. There remains of these, a poem on the Mil- 
lennium of some seven or eight hundred lines, some odes 
and pastorals, and a descriptive poem entitled, " The Chris- 
tian's Death Bed." They evidence poetical ability, correct 
taste, and much classical knowledge, but want finish and 
accuracy of style. A short piece, called The Swallow, which 
will be found among the poetry in this volume, was written 
upon one of his visits at home, for the amusement of a 
younger brother, and making no pretensions to merit, is ren- 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 25 

dered charming by its very simplicity. Mr. Graham's pen 
was always at the service of his friends. The albums of his 
female acquaintances were ornamented by his beautiful pen- 
manship and ingenious rhymes. Great amusement was 
afforded to his sisters and cousins by the poetical letters they 
were constantly receiving from college. Many of these 
have been preserved. They are generally unsuitable for 
publication, but I cannot refrain from subjoining one or two 
extracts from the many I have seen, trusting that they will 
be read with interest, in connexion with the scenes and 
events that prompted them. 

Dear Sister, what say you to this kind of weather, 

Spring, winter and summer all mixed up together 1 

The seasons are crazy ! they're acting so queer, 

'Tis a chance if old Winter don't rule round the year. 

It is rarely the sun is allowed to look out. 

And then just to see what mankind are about ; 

When his curtains again are drawn round him so tight, 

Old Boreas can play his wild pranks out of sight. 

But sometimes the winds will get tired of blowing, 

And the clouds by long raining at last will grow thin. 
And surly old Winter will seem to be going, 

And Spring all in smiles will be just coming in. 
When Nature refreshed her lost smiles will recover, 

And sunshine be sparkling on many a hill ; 
Then out goes the student, the lady and lover. 

To rove on the banks of some soft flowing rill. 
But Winter returns from the north in a flurry, 

All blustering to see what young Spring has been at, 
And shuts up the sun with his clouds in a hurry. 

And sends out his winds to lay every thing flat. 
And directly, before you know what you're about, 

Such a rumpus he'll raise as you never did hear, 

3 



26 



MEMOIR OP 



And student, and lady, and lover, no doubt, 

Will be puffing and coughing the rest of the year. 



Ye cousins all of London town, that seat of female merit, 
Behold ! once more I sit me down, in a poetic spirit : 
Out of the depths of mud I cry, where sinners wade together, 
And wish you all a sunny sky, good roads and better weather. 
Rain seems the order of the day, and Newark feels its power, 
The ladies, forced in doors to stay, almost begin to sour; 
Their faces, at the windows seen, no rapturous smiles discover. 
Gloom shades the brow, where smiles have been, dark as the 

clouds that hover. 
The streets a mass of miry clay, the gutters pour in thunder. 
The crops are drowned, so farmers say, but cut-worms work in 

under; 
The old man stares, and shuts the door, and swears in language 

clever, 
That such a storm was ne'er before, — nor shall be more — forever. 

Alas ! of former charms no trace is found the prospect o'er, 
And Newark, once a lovely place, is lovely now no more. 
Those flowers, which dressed in colours bright, did " here in 

beauty bloom," 
Those lips of love and eyes of light, are now all clothed in gloom. 
We hear the voice of song no more from beauty swelling high, 
Naught but the torrent's sullen roar beneath a frowning sky ; 
Bright faces robed in smiles of love, no more with pleasure glow, 
A furious deluge roars above, a watery waste below. 
When thus the elements engage to scatter consternation, 
Where can we fly to 'scape their rage, or seek for consolation 1 
What tho' within an hundred feet, we saw Eve's loveliest 

daughters. 
What mortal could attempt the street, or cross the stormy waters ? 
Where'er we turn an ear or eye, the signs of wo are double, 
The cattle low, the children cry, the world is filled with trouble ; 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 27 

A solitary grunter moans along the swelling gutter, 

And wallowing in the mire he loves, begins at length to mutter : 

"Alas!" grunts he, "that boasting men should live in such a 

border, 
I'll get me to my sty again, 'tis in much better order !" 



An altar pure on Afric's mount, 'mid scenes of darkness dreary, 
'Mid deserts parched a sparkling fount, to cheer the pilgrim weary, 
Each formed alone by nature's art, whence all their charms they 

borrow. 
Like emblems are of woman's heart, amid a world of sorrow. 
In that fair spot, whilst all around is wrapt in self-devotion, 
An altar of true love is found, based on sincere emotion ; 
Joyful around the virtues stand, and pour a pure libation, 
And singing muses, hand in hand, take up their grateful station. 
Now roused by the harmonious strain, all regular advancing. 
Emerge the graces in a train, and lead around the dancing; 
Concurring virtues lift their heads, and raise their cheerful voices, 
Upon the altar incense spread, and friendship loud rejoices. 
Now whilst this scene is going on, whilst virtue, muses, graces, 
In ivomcm's heart have built their throne, and show their cheerful 

faces ; 
No wonder that they seem so fair, that we could never lose them, 
Given by these, the charms they wear, and taught by these to use 

them. 

And now I'll strike another string, and grow less sentimental :— 
My altar now shall be a spring ; her heart, a fountain gentle. 
E'en as a stream through thirsty plain, in modest silence, stealing. 
Lies woman's heart in a world of pain, a fountain of pure feeling. 
In a calm tide the waters roll, whilst all around them flourish. 
And streams of kindness thro' the soul, the plants of virtue nourish. 
Joy in their murmuring cadence sings, its music never ceasing, 
And Pity borne on angel's wings, sighs soft and sadly pleasing. 
Not so when storms of sorrow rise, their placid bosom sweeping. 
Enforced they mount into the eyes, and overflow in weeping ; 



28 MEMOIR OF 

Contending with afflictions strong, from Grief new tones they 

borrow, 
Until what was Joy's grateful song, becomes the voice of Sorrow. 
No lovely flower of moral kind, that has with earth connexion, 
In this rich soil w^e cannot find, all blooming in perfection ; 
Nor hide they in their native place to avoid the tempests chilly, 
Grown up, they bloom upon the face, with tints of rose and lily. 
Here on a soft and fragrant bed. Love wrapped in dreams, reposes, 
And o'er the little vagrant's head, the Graces sprinkle roses ; 
'Mongst which he often starts, and flies up to his portals narrow, 
And peeping out from sparkling eyes, shoots many a fatal arrow. 

Mr. Graham's departure for college had been the first 
break in this hitherto united and happy family. Alas ! it 
was soon to be followed by many and bitter trials. Soon 
after his leaving home, his father, returning" one night from 
a visit to one of his parisliioners, was thrown from his car- 
riage and received a serious injury. After a tedious illness 
he recovered sufficiently to be able to preach as formerly, but 
was never again able to walk without a cane. Injudicious 
medical treatment aggravated his disease, and after linger- 
ino- nearly a year, he departed, Nov. 5, 1835, to render an 
account of his stew^ardship. The warm attachment which 
existed between the father and his favourite son, had been 
strengthened rather than diminished by the absence of the 
latter at college, and his death was a great loss as well as 
grief to William. He loved to talk of his father, and to 
describe to me his appearance and character. He was his 
perfect model of what a father should be. This filial reve- 
rence and love was one of the most prominent and beautiful 
traits in his disposition. In the incidents of his childhood, to 
which he was fond of recurring, his father's name was often 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 29 

mentioned, and one of the first papers that he gave into my 
care, was a note from him written soon after he left home for 
college. This he treasured as one of his most valuable pos- 
sessions. It is principally upon business, but closes with 
these impressive words. " My son, remember one thing is 
needful, and with all your getting, daily ask God in prayer 
for that wisdom which cometh from above, and which is pro- 
fitable to direct. Whatever other books you neglect, neglect 
not God's book, your Bible, make this daily the man of your 
counsel. Be choice of your company, and write to us often." 

The elder Mr. Graham was well known throughout Dela- 
ware and Eastern Pennsylvania, and had made many friends 
by his blameless and useful life. When m after years his 
son met with strangers, it was sufficient for them to say that 
they had known and respected his father, to win for them his 
particular attention and regard. How expressive was this 
feeling of true love and grief! How often in such a case do 
objects hitherto regarded with indifference, become, when 
sanctified by association, invested with a beauty and interest 
that nought else could have given them. 

The death of the elder Mr. Graham was but the beginning 
of sorrows. The second son, John, died of consumption a 
short time after, and the heart of the widow and the mother 
was bowed to the earth with grief. The elder brother, 
Robert, being in the west, William became the adviser and 
supporter of his afllicted family. His mother, although fond 
and tender in her intercourse with all of her children, mani- 
fested for him from his earliest youth the warmest pride and 
affection. It was amply returned. He had always been to 
her gentle and kind, but now he strove, by increased duty 
3* 



30 MEMOIR OP 

and affection, to fill the void made in her happiness. He 
cherished for the very word " Mother," a peculiar and tender 
feeling. Her reliance upon him for counsel, awakened and 
strengthened all the kindly sympathies of his nature. It 
taught him that charity and deep sympathy with "the 
widow" which he always exhibited. " She is a widow," he 
would say, and for this reason every thing was to be borne 
and every fault forgiven. 

The devotion of Mr. Graham for his mother, availed not to 
save her from the grasp of the Destroyer, but it smoothed her 
passage to the grave, toward which she was rapidly hasten- 
ing. Mr. Graham graduated in the fall of 1836, and at the 
Commencement delivered the valedictory. It was an origi- 
nal poem, and gained for him high commendation. His 
mother and sister were present — but the former was bathed 
in tears during the scene. Upon being questioned as to her 
sadness when all were so proud and gay, she replied, " his 
father cannot hear him." The long sickness of her husband 
and son, and the devoted nursing bestowed upon both, had 
made fearful inroads upon her naturally strong constitution, 
and her orphan children witnessed, Vv'ith agony not to be 
described, consumption again within their dwelling. In vam 
were the most skilflil remedies and the most assiduous atten- 
tions. She died March 26, 1840, leaving ten children, (the 
youngest not six years old,) with but a small portion of this 
world's goods, but rich in integrity, piety, and an honest 
name. The inscription for the monument to the mother of 
Cowper might well have been engraved upon the tomb of 
Mrs. Graham : 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 3j 

" Still was she studious never to offend ; 
And glad of an occasion to commend ; 
With ease would pardon injuries received, 
Nor e'er was cheerful when another grieved ; 
Despising state, with her own lot content. 
Enjoyed the comforts of a life well spent; 
Resigned, when heaven demanded back her breath, 
Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death." 

Immediately after his graduation, Mr. Graham accepted 
the situation of tutor in Delaware College, and remained 
there from three to four years. 

He continued to pursue his classical studies, but his time 
and thoughts were much occupied by his cares for the com- 
fort of his mother, and the necessity for his frequent presence 
at home. He visited also in the village of Newark, and his 
engaging manners and versatile talents rendered him a 
favourite with all who knew him. He was peculiarly inte- 
resting and improving in his conversation, and with his 
intimate friends, was social and communicative. The pro- 
ductions of his pen frequently enlivened their meetings. 

Although his mental characteristics were more fully dis- 
played in after years, Mr. Graham was remarkable, even thus 
early, for his unwearied application, and the philosophical 
cast of his mind. An intimate friend thus speaks of him : 
"Although apparently frail in constitution and feeble in 
strength, he would endure an amount of continued and 
severe mental exertion, that would prostrate much stronger 
students. He had a power of concentration that was almost 
unparalleled. He would think longer, deeper, and broader 
on any theme than any young man I ever knew. It was 
comparatively easy to confuse him in an argument by chang- 



32 MEMOIR OP 

ing- ground and resorting to assertion and sophistry ; but in 
the sphere of legitimate logic, he was almost omnipotent. 
In quick perception and in brilliant repartee, he was not so 
much at home. He could construct an argument faultless 
and impregnable as a fortress, but he must have time to lay 
his foundation stones, one by one. His mind swept over such 
a wide compass, it is not wonderful that its movements were 
not rapid. 

"As a teacher in college he was eminently successfiil. 
His own perceptions of truth were so clear and strong, that 
it was natural for him to impart knowledge in the same lucid 
and forcible manner in which it lay in his own mind. His 
standard of a student, derived from his own practice, was 
almost unapproachably high. Relaxation, meals, rest, were 
of little account with him, compared with the proper comple- 
tion of the appouited task of study. I have known him shut 
himself in his room, and go without his own meals for a whole 
day, to compel some lazy mischievous student to do the same, 
until he should master his lesson. Of course such unbending 
perseverance made him a rigid disciplinarian. Yet it was 
done in so mild and gentle a manner, that he generally won 
the esteem and love of all of his scholars." 

But his attention was by no means confined to human 
learning. The Castalian fountain could not satisfy his thirst 
for knowledge. He had early learned to esteem the waters 
of " Siloa, which go so softly." His early youth had been 
consecrated to a nobler service than that of philosophy or the 
muses. He had long- studied the oracles of heavenly wis- 
dom, and from their mines of rich treasure had drawn a 
golden vein, to wind through his varied researches in human 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 33 

lore. This served not only to enrich, but to throw a radiance 
about the path of his investigations, revealing here and there 
a quicksand, and guiding him to the solid ground of eternal 
truth. " His penetrating mind gave him most clear and 
distinct apprehensions of spiritual truth. His convictions 
were consequently deep and strong. But he had a manner 
of manifesting them, perhaps different from most others. 
There was, in his experience, no approach to cant or fanati- 
cism. His emotions were the result of sober thought, and 
flowed in a still deep stream, seldom in the sparkling cascade 
or plunging cataract. He could look back to no period, as 
the exact date of his conversion to Christianity. The pure 
example and elevated piety that shone in his paternal dwell- 
ing, sank into his youthful mind, and early moulded it to 
ways of virtue and holiness. His religion was not one of 
feeling or sentiment or formality — but eminently one of prin- 
ciple. He was a most interesting teacher of the Bible. The 
sphere of Sabbath-school instruction was almost the only one 
open to benevolent enterprise and zeal, at that time, in the 
neighbourhood of Newark, and that sphere he cheerfully 
entered upon and laboriously pursued. In the town and sur- 
rounding country these blessed agencies were much indebted 
to his gratuitous exertions. The teachers of that day, in the 
Sunday-school at Newark, will not soon forget the Saturday 
evening expositions of the lessons given by him. He contri- 
buted to the interest of these meetings for many months, and 
his rich and original illustrations of the truth taught in the 
lesson, not only delighted the teachers, but prepared them for 
much greater usefulness when they came before their classes 
on the Sabbath day. 



34 MEMOIR OF 

" In the spring of 1836, chiefly through the exertions of 
the late Rev. Andrew Barr, several Sunday-schools were 
sustained in the destitute neighbourhoods in the vicinity of 
Newark. One of the most successful of these schools was 
held near the Pennsylvania line, at what is known as the 
'Harmony school-house.' This enterprise was much in- 
debted to the labours of Mr. Graham. He commenced his 
eflTorts here as one of several teachers from Newark, by 
whom the school was sustained in the midst of considerable 
opposition. He soon became the superintendent and sole 
labourer from abroad. Alone, and with much toil, frequently, 
after having instructed two other classes during the day in 
distant places, he maintained that school, vigorously impart- 
ing to some hundred souls, children and adults, the solemn 
lessons of divine truth. In that neighbourhood those labours 
will not soon be forgotten. I have little doubt that children, 
and children's children will rise up and call him blessed. 
At several Sabbath-school celebrations in various places, he 
made addresses. They were always marked by that strict 
method and rich illustration so characteristic of his own 
mind. His Christian faith showed itself eminently in works. 
If he had not so many words about experimental religion as 
some others, he had a larger spirit of self-sacrifice and practi- 
cal devotion, which evinced a high and difficult attainment 
in Christianity. The closest scrutiny of his character, under 
every variety of circumstances, but more fully established his 
reputation as a good man and true, full of sympathy for all 
mankind, keenly alive to injustice and wrong and meanness, 
and ready to yield his own preferences and gratifications 
promptly, for the good of his fellow-men. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 35 

" His social habits at this time were rather peculiar. He 

was never ' a man of the world,' in the common acceptation 

of the term. For the mere formalities of society, he had no 

taste. 

' The repetitious weariness of sense, 
Where soul is dead and feeling hath no place. 
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark, 
On out^vard things with formal inference ends,' 

was to him insufferable. But he loved conversation, and 
with those who would dwell upon themes of mutual interest, 
he would never tire of communicating. In company, when 
he felt at liberty, he has often directed conversation for a 
whole evening in a single channel, and yet his thoughts 
seemed never to be exhausted. The idle chit-chat of the 
drawing-room possessed for him no charm. His mind, com- 
pelled to hurry from topic to topic by the changeful current 
of conversation, would not act. He must concentrate his 
thoughts and pour the tide of his mental stimulus upon a 
given theme ; and then his soul kindled with its opening 
treasures, and he was rich and instructive in conversation. 
Hence he always preferred a small select circle of friends to 
promiscuous company. Hence his personal attachments be- 
came strong — almost indolatrous. His soul was freighted 
with warm affections, but he cared not to unbosom himself, 
except to tried and confidential associates. To them he was 
ever the prized companion, the reliable counsellor, the faith- 
ful and conscientious friend." 

As a fitting conclusion to this part of Mr. Graham's life, 
an extract from a letter written by him, will not be uninte- 
resting. The origin was this. Two or three friends, of 



36 MEMOIR OF 

whom Mr. Graham was one, met in the parlour of Miss 

, and expecting soon to be separated, agreed each to 

write to her a letter, to be opened on the anniversary of that 
evenmg, in the same room. The following is a part of the 
contribution of Mr. Graham : 

A year agone ! -what a broad theme, 

If need there were for rhapsody, 
Time's sweeping wing and silent stream, 
The vision of Life's fleeting dream. 
And thousand briUiant tropes that beam 
In Fancy — more than you would deem, 

And more than yet perhaps I see. 
But not for them I'd turn my head 
O'er life's rough path again to tread — 
Before, where Hope's gay beams are shed, 

A brighter prospect blooms; 
What's retrospection, but a journey dread 

Among the tombs ! 

The Past is one wide grave-yard, spread 
With the sad relics of the dead ; 
The tombs of hopes and pleasures fled. 
And friends and friendships sepulchred. 
Where, like the worm in darkness fed. 

Oblivion slow consumes ; 
And memory, like the wandering Ught 
That sports o'er graves at dead of night, 

The joyless waste illumes. 

There walk the ghosts of follies too, — 

How many none may know ; 
And deeds we hoped no more to view, 
And sorrows — all we ever knew. 
Like phantoms dread our steps pursue, 

To haunt us as we go. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 37 

Yet pleasures there are that have fled, 

Whose tombstones right pleasant would be, 

And follies that time hath sent down to the dead, 

Whose ghosts 't were no terror to see. 
* * * * 



After the death of his mother, the care of his younger sister 
and brothers devolved chiefly upon Mr. Graham. His res- 
ponsibilities became those of a second father. With what 
uprightness and patient affection he fulfilled this trust, many 
can testify. From his earliest youth he had cherished the 
desire and anticipation of becoming a minister of the gospel. 
His father, upon his dying bed, had given to him this solemn 
admonition, " My son, if you should be spared to preach the 
gospel, preach only Christ and him crucified." He ever re- 
garded the conditional style of this remark as a proof of his 
father's great prudence, but felt himself bound by it as by a 
solemn and distinct injunction. After his graduation, the 
want of means to enter a theological seminary, had determined 
him to remain as tutor in college, for a time ; and now another 
obstacle arose to the immediate gratification of his darling 
wish. The necessity of securing to his younger brothers a 
'bomfortable home and good education, seemed likely to detain 
him many years from the accomplishment of his purpose. 
But his energetic and self-sacrificing spirit was found fully 
equal to the emergency. The academy of New London, 
which he had formerly attended as a pupil, was now without 
a teacher, and in a languishing state. Its trustees invited 
him to become the Principal. He accepted the invitation, 
and the whole family removed into the village. The old 
homestead passed into the hands of strangers, and the chil- 
4 



39 MEMOIR OF 

dren who had been born beneath its roof, and sported in its 
chambers, who had shared within its walls life's sweetest joy 
and its first sorrow, went forth together to revisit it no more. 

In the academy of New London, Mr. Graham first dis- 
played those abilities as a teacher, for which he was after- 
wards pre-eminently distinguished. " This school," says a 
friend, " had for several years been gradually declining, until 
the number of students no longer yielded a support to the 
Principal. There had been no school in it for about two 
years. Mr. Graham, in a very short time, and under discour- 
aging circumstances, entirely resuscitated the Institution, not 
only restoring it to its former prosperous condition, but gain- 
ing for it a reputation and popularity it had never before 
attained. During the last year there were connected with 
the school seventy-two pupils, of whom upwards of forty were 
boarders from a distance. This one fact may suffice to show 
his popularity as a teacher, and the rapidity with which this 
academy rose into favour under his management." An elder 
sister assisting him in the boarding department, he sustained 
the whole charge of this large establishment, although but 
twenty-two years of age, with dignity, decision, and great 
success. Amid the friends of his youth, he strengthened the 
affection they naturally felt for their late minister's son, by 
the modesty and amenity of his manners, the sincerity and 
uprightness of his character, and his ready sympathy and aid 
in all their difficulties. One instance of this, united to a 
conscientious and fearless discharge of duty, is thus related 
by a friend. " All my intercourse with him was delightful, 
and I remember with pleasure, a season when the small-pox 
appeared in our village, and for a time broke up the school. 



^ WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 39 

Every house where the disease entered, was of course 
shunned. I was taken ill. No one came near me but my 
physician. In a few days Mr. Graham called. His appear- 
ance excited my surprise, and I urged him not to enter — 
" Oh yes ! I came for the express purpose," was the reply, 
and he persisted in entering". From this time he came every 
day and sat with me ; and I well remember how agreeable 
was the sight of his face in that gloomy chamber." 

It might be supposed that this little family had endured 
enough of sorrow, and that the chastening hand of a kind 
heavenly Father would not again be extended over them. 
But Time's healing power had scarce begun to soothe their 
wounded hearts, ere death was once more in their midst. 
The eldest brother, Robert, a youth of promise and line abili- 
ties, was the next victim. He had gone to the west and 
engaged in business before his father's death, but now struck 
with incurable disease, returned to die among his kindred. 
To this brother, William was particularly attached. There 
existed between them great congeniality of sentiment. Mu- 
tual assistance had been rendered in times of difficulty, draw- 
ing more closely together the bonds of natural fraternal 
affection. Although Robert was very much the elder, they 
had been confidants and correspondents for years. The 
sweet and solemn memories of the past, the beautiful quali- 
ties of the present, the ambitious hopes of the future which 
each entertained for the other, bound their hearts in unison. 
It was a sore trial, under such circumstances, to watch the 
couch and smooth the pillow of the dying, but nobly was the 
task fulfilled. The bereavement was deeply felt, and often 
reverted to by Mr. Graham. Death could not diminish his 



40 MEMOIR OP $ 

affection, nor time weaken his remembrance ; and when not 
many years after his own spirit had entered within the valley 
of the shadow of death, and the sounds in his chamber fell 
with confusion on his ear, ere lost in the recesses of the val- 
ley, his voice was hushed forever, it mingled the name of 
" Robert" with that of his mother, and invoked them to wel- 
come him to heaven. 

The circumstances which surrounded Mr. Graham at New 
London, were not favourable to the development of his genius, 
and his naturally modest mind seemed singularly unconscious 
of its powers. During his residence in New London, he 
made but slight progress in intellectual excellence, and the 
vigour of his mind was expended in the endeavour to give 
prominence and success to his school, and in performing the 
daily duties connected therewith. Constant attention and 
untiring effort were requisite to accomplish the task he had 
undertaken. The reputation which, aflerwards, under similar 
circumstances, rendered success easier, was j^et to be made. 
Diligently he toiled, rising early and sitting up late, cheer- 
fully devoting the bloom of his youth and the first flush of his 
manhood, to the comfort and advantage of those whom he 
loved. The pecuniary profit, which was the actual result of 
the industry and happy business talent here displayed, formed 
but slight inducement to the exertion, and was no reward in 
his eyes for the sacrifice he was making. A nobler ambition 
occupied his heart. Says one who knew him well, " Of his 
solicitude for the welfare of his family, as well as the plans 
by which this was to be accomplished, he has left abundant 
evidence—plans, indicative of a mind comprehensive and 
vigorous enough to grasp the rough realities of life ; with a 



* WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. ^j 

prudence and firmness rather to be expected from the man 
of business, than from the youth whose brief existence had 
hitherto been devoted to the pursuits of literature, and whose 
tastes, apart from the claims of duty and affection, would 
never have prompted him to their consideration. Although 
possessing all the qualifications necessary to success in busi- 
ness life, he neither sought nor found enjoyment in the accu- 
mulation of dollars and cents ; and valued them no farther 
than they seemed to be necessary to an honourable indepen- 
dence, and as a means of enabling him to pursue unremitted- 
ly those studies, which were to him not only sources of intel- 
lectual enjoyment, but which he regarded as essential to the 
proper discharge of higher and nobler duties." 

Mr. Graham's habits and tastes were simple in the ex- 
treme, and required not wealth for their gratification. A 
total abnegation of self was one of the most striking traits in 
his character. In a letter, written a year later, he says, " I 
do consider it the noblest trait of human nature to be willing 
to sacrifice self (not right or duty) to the interests, the plea- 
sures, and even the prejudices of those we love ; and the pre- 
ference of self to others' feelings is the essence of littleness." 
Unlike the world in general, his precept was accompanied by 
example. His thoughts, desires and feelings seemed to be 
always under the dominion of reason. Where his inclina- 
tions warred with its dictates, they were silenced or unheed- 
ed. No one ever felt more the importance of self-control — 
no one ever practised it more fully. He fulfilled all his 
duties from a conviction of right, because they were duties, 
and he found his reward in the consciousness of his own in- 
tegrity, and the approbation of his God. 
4* 



^2 ME3I0IK OF 

Before introducing Mr. Graham into a new sphere of 
action, I will insert some portions of a letter wTitten to the 
friend to Whom I am indebted for reminiscences of his tutor- 
ship in Delaware College. These sprightly effusions of his 
pen were of such frequent recurrence ; and the spirit of inno- 
cent playfulness in which they originated, blended so harmo- 
niously with the real strength and solidity of his character, 
that it would be impossible to draw a faithful picture of him 
without frequently introducing them. His correspondent had 
neglected writing for some months, and the following metri- 
cal effusion is an answer to a letter received unexpectedly, 
by the hand of a mutual friend, on his return from a wedding 
tour : 

TO MILO J. H******. 

How now, friend Thomas ] Peace and length of days 
Is my worst wish for thee and thy fair 3Irs. — 

Whence 1 Whither 1 Wherefore 1 What's the news 1 What 
says 
Thy short experience of the nuptial blisses 1 



Heard'st aught of Milo ] Saw'st his tomb 1 Alas ! 

Poor Milo ! swept in morning life away ! 
Did'st hear, above his early grave, the grass 

Pour to the careless wind his requiem lay 1 
Thus dearest friends, Uke lovely visions, pass ! 

But Milo ! thou wert more than vulgar clay ; 
For worth and sense and soul, thy like again 
Not soon we'll meet among the sons of men ! 

He had his faults — who not, of human kind 1 
What mortal virtue is without its shade 1 

Yet, gleaming through them all, a generous mind 
Shone in his life, and o'er his features played. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 43 

What tho' among his ashes we could find 

Some Yankee foibles, shall we then invade 
The tomb, and scan the errors that now lie low 1 
Light be the dust upon thy head, friend Milo ! 

But what is this 1 a letter — by these eyes, 

'Tis Milo's, or an optical delusion ! 
Post-marked the lower regions ] or the skies ] 

Smells it of brimstone ] And by what intrusion 
Of goblin, came it o'er the gulf, that lies 

'Twixt earth and that far kingdom of confusion, 
Where ghosts in troops, along each Stygian river, 
In gloomy forests walk and talk forever ] 

But thou art in thy mortal body, Milo, 

Walking the earth, as thy sign manual showeth, 

Which, not a goblin from the regions high, low, 
Or mid, to counterfeit the mystery knoweth ; 

But by the stars it seemed a dreadful while, O, 
Since thou — but I forgive thee all ; which goeth 

To prove the falsehood of that ancient song, 

" He never pardons who hath done the wrong." 

Since last my spirit walked with thine, conversing 
With pens and eyes, instead of tongues and ears, 

(No bad contrivance — nature's plan reversing, 
And winging words for distance and for years,) 

Twelve circling moons with blessing fraught, and cursing. 
Have led the tide of human hopes and fears; 

And change is written, and shall be again, 

On puny man, on mountain and the main. 

But thou art still the same — thy coat, perhaps, 

Hath deepened somewhat toward the parson's sable, 

And thou hast got some Hebrew, and some scraps 
Of divers other of the tongues of Babel. 

All histories of all heretics, and the traps 

Thou know'st, with which they sought to catch the un- 
stable ; 



44 MEMOIR OP 

Through many a page of Mosheim's dull monotony, 
Thou'st gone for something new, and never got any. 

And in Theology's most secret mazes, 
Didactic and polemic, thou hast been, 

And art acquaint with Orthodgxy's phrases, 
From Doctor Moses, down to Doctor Green, — 

Hast learned to storm the bulwarks error raises, 
And round the truth to draw a weapon keen. 

To knock all sects and systems on the head. 

And rear the Presbyterian in their stead. 



But to return — 'though change hath passed o'er much, 
And on thy brow perhaps hath left a shade. 

No lapse of time or silent years may touch 

A heart like thine, where kind affections played. 

And for myself, I'm very nearly such 

As when we parted ; and as soon shall fade 

The memory of the stars and glorious sun, 

As thy name, from the heart 'tis stamped upon. 

The constant battling of the waves will chase 
The deep based rock back from the ocean's rage; 

Huge rents the mountain's lofty brow deface, 

In the wild war which winds and lightnings wage ; 

Old Egypt's tombs shall vanish from their base. 
And the earth wither in the grasp of age ; 

But not to time belongs the power, to rase 

One name by friendship graved on memory's page. 

Eternal friendship, on the hills of heaven. 

Walked with the angels, ere the stars were made; 

Friendship immortal, when the earth is riven, 
Will muse unharmed o'er worlds in ruin laid. 

And when earth's memory long had else been given 
To deep oblivion — Friendship, undecayed, 

From the high walls, where heaven's bright banners wave, 

Will drop a tear o'er Time's eternal grave. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 45 

But I must " curb my Pegasus." I little 

Thought to talk thus, when I began to rhyme. 

I only wished to write my own acquittal 

From censure of neglect — and then to chime 

A little nonsense, which doth rarely sit ill 

On my pen's nib, into thine ear. " The crime 

Of making verse," to bore you with the reading, 

Is not the sin that most becomes my breeding. 



Now I begin to stop — seize your gray goose-quill, 

(That mighty instrument of little men,) 
And a long letter with the latest news fill, 

And send it to the post-office amain ; 
Or, by the muse, in my next, I'll abuse well, 

You for your faithlessness — and turn my pen 
And blot out all I've said here to your praise. 
And so good night, friend Milo — Yours always, 

W. S. G. 

Mr. Graham remained in New London but eighteen 
months. His school, from nothingness, attained to the high- 
est prosperity. A kind providence had blessed his endea- 
vours, and every thing seemed pleasant and prosperous. At 
this moment, when he might reasonably have been expected 
to remain and enjoy the fruits of his diligence and perseve- 
rance, he resigned his school into the hands of a younger 
brother, and removed to Newark. For this change several 
reasons might be given. Mr. Graham possessed a most won- 
derful amount of energy. He was never satisfied, except 
when the whole vigor of his mind was exerting itself upon 
an object. His character was a rare union of an enlightened 
judgment and steady self-possession, with the most profound 
and vehement enthusiasm. He was always full of plans and 
schemes. Although of delicate appearance, and liable, upon 



46 MEMOIR OF 

the slightest exposure, to be attacked with hereditary con- 
sumption, his powers of physical endurance were very great. 
His activity, mental or physical, was rarely impaired by the 
languor of weakness or disease. The object for which he 
had toiled, attained — he could not sit down to enjoy, but 
looked around for new difficulties to surmount, new fields to 
conquer. This restlessness arose neither from desire for 
excitement, nor love of change. No man enjoyed more the 
calm pleasures of domestic life, nor attended more faithfully 
to the duties of his calling. But necessity forbade him that 
leisure necessary for the expenditure of his powers in their 
legitimate field of action. The situation now oifered seemed 
to combine the intellectual advantages for which he sighed, 
with the certainty of a comfortable support. There were 
difficulties enough in his way, to give full scope for his ener- 
gies, and make reputation attendant on success. The Rev. 
Dr. Gilbert, who had been President of Delaware College at 
the time of Mr. Graham's first entrance as a student, had 
soon afler resigned his office. The institution had gradually 
declined, and but few students remained. At this critical 
moment Dr. Gilbert again accepted the presidency, and 
taking his place at the helm, endeavoured to raise the college 
from the low state into which it had fallen. Secure of an 
able coadjutor in Mr. Graham, his influence was exerted to 
induce him to accept the office of Principal of the academy, 
then the Preparatory Department of the college. To the 
great gratification of the Board of Trustees, and all who 
were mterested in the welfare of the Institution, he consent- 
ed. He removed to Newark in the fall of 1841, and entered 
upon his duties with diligence. How he succeeded, let its 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 47 

catalogues tell. In the course of a year, the number of 
boarders became so great, as to require the construction of 
an additional edifice for their accommodation. This was 
built upon a plan of Mr. Graham's own invention, under his 
personal superintendence, and at his own immediate ex- 
pense; the Board of Trustees agreeing to return hun the 
amount expended, in instalments, some years later. 

The society of Newark was, at this time, pre-eminently 
delightful. It was small, but select. It consisted almost 
entirely of the gentlemen of the Faculty, the ladies connect- 
ed with them in their domestic relations, a few families of 
the village remarkable for their sprightliness, hospitality, and 
intelligence, and the few who were occasionally drawn 
thither by pleasure or business. The enjoyments of this 
circle were purely intellectual. The day was devoted by 
the gentlemen to study or college duty, and on the part of 
the ladies, to reading or domestic cares, but every evening 
witnessed a re-union, where criticism, compliment, and con- 
troversy, (playful or serious,) became the order of the hour. 
The student unbent the wrinkled brow, and gave himself up 
heartily to recreation, while the linguist, the philosopher and 
the mathematician mingled their various stores, in converse 
rich and rare. Music, in the soul-entrancing strains of one 
of its most accomplished amateurs, awoke responding chords 
— and in strains now grave, now gay, attuned each heart to 
sweetest harmony, 

" With bliss complete, 
And full fruition fiUing all the soul." 

Poesy, from her abundant stores, furnished a rich quota, 



48 MEMOIR OP 

selected or original, to the feast. Beauty was not wanting to 
" fling enchantment o'er the scene," and wit, sparkling, yet 
pure, flashed freely forth on every occasion. The etiquette 
of a city disturbed not the constant flow of social and familiar 
intercourse, and the gossip of a country village died in an 
atmosphere too elevated to furnish it with food. 

Coming from the seclusion of a student's life, and the 
monotony of a country school, and thrown suddenly into a 
circle like this, the effect upon the mind of Mr. Graham was 
immediately perceptible. It forced into action at once the 
hitherto undeveloped powers of his intellect. Brought into 
close contact with men his superiors in age, learning, and 
knowledge of the world — with women, fascinating in person, 
and cultivated in mind, he eagerly embraced the encourage- 
ment and incentives to intellectual labour, now for the first 
time afforded, and entering with enthusiasm into all their 
pursuits, soon shone the brightest star in that galaxy. 

Some time previous to the period of which we are speak- 
ing, a society had been formed among the ministers of 
Newark, for mutual improvement in theological pursuits. 
After Mr. Graham's arrival this was merged in one of a 
more general character. It was called " the Conclave," and 
met every Tuesday evening at the house of the President of 
the College. It was rendered exclusive by no rules, but was 
attended principally by the Faculty, and the ladies above 
mentioned. The latter attended by invitation, but, of course, 
took no part in the proceedings. Here each member brought 
forward the results of his reading or invention, or exercised 
his critical powers on those of others. Mutual confidence 
and esteem created a bond which piquant raillery, or even 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 49 

severe retort, failed to sunder. There was nothing to cramp 
the intellectual energies or to check the flashes of wit, 
which often accompanied this " action of mind upon mind." 
An original article occupied the first hour of the evening, 
and the remamder was spent in the free discussion to which 
it gave rise. Of these intellectual banquets, the contribu- 
tions of Mr. Graham were a coveted and exquisite portion. 
The facility with which he could detect a fallacy in an argu- 
ment, his unequalled command of language, and power to 
accumulate facts and imagery to give it effect, combined to 
render him a skilful essayist or dangerous opponent. 

Amid the engrossing cares, resulting from his position as 
Principal of Newark academy, he formed his first acquaint- 
ance with Coleridge. His interest once excited, he perused 
his works with ardour, and entered with the greatest zest into 
his particular views and theories. He became enraptured 
with this splendid genius, both as a poet and a philosopher. 
As the Coleridgean philosophy had few admirers in Newark, 
all his powers were tasked to commend and defend the sys- 
tem. "And," (says the President of the college,) "it was 
the unanimous sentiment of the college Faculty and Literary 
Conclave, of which he was a member, and before which he 
was often called to defend himself, that whether the system 
be true or false, they had never come in contact with a more 
able, acute, and eloquent defender. The Coleridgean philo- 
sophy, as Coleridge left it, is a collection of beautiful hints, 
of elegant fragments, of suggestive first principles, without 
carrying out fully any one train of thought, or giving any 
end, or even middle, to his theory. Mr. Graham, as his 
literary friends used to say, was the only advocate of that 
5 



50 MEMOIR OF 

transcendental philosophy, who could give to it a beginning, 
middle, and end, and show its important practical bearing on 
mental science, morality, and religion." 

But although his enthusiasm in favour of Coleridge was 
intense, and became so much a part of his being, as to give 
character to mind and thought, and to mingle in every thing 
that he said or wrote during the remainder of his life, Cole- 
ridgeanism was not the only thing which he handled to admi- 
ration. Taking part in some theological discussions in the 
Conclave, he entertained them two evenings with an essay 
on Imputation — upon which he laid out all of his theological 
strength, and gave a fine specimen of his powers for logical 
analysis, lively fancy and ingenious argument. This essay, 
composed amid a multiplicity of engagements, was written 
in haste, and never revised. It was at first contemplated to 
publish it in this volume, but its length, and the nature of the 
subject, seemed to render it incongruous with the miscella- 
neous character of the work, and the design was relin- 
quished. It could not fail to do him honour as a writer, 
although some might question his perfect orthodoxy. It 
defines the distinction between Old and New School Pres- 
byterianism, and seeking to find a medium between the two, 
starts an entirely new theory. It was his intention to have 
prepared this essay for insertion in a Review, and in the 
retirement to which he was always looking forward, to have 
given it that accuracy and elegance of style which he was 
fully capable of doing, but which it was impossible for him to 
attain in the hurried and busy life he was then leading. 
Unfortunately for his fame, and to the great regret of his 
friends, it was laid aside, after being read in the Conclave, 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 5j 

and the "more convenient season" was destined never to 
arrive. 

Many and various were the reviews and essays, which, 
glowing" with the spirit of the philosopher and the poet, 
and redolent of his genius, were presented before the Con- 
clave by Mr. Graham. He extemporized, however, so much, 
and his notes are so fragmentary, that of the most of them no 
record remains. The most finished, is an essay on Rhythm, 
which, at the request of a friend, he afterwards commenced 
writing oif. The most important part of it is, however, left 
unfinished, and there exists the sad necessity of leaving it 
unpublished, or of presenting it in a most imperfect form. 

The greatest fault, perhaps, of Mr. Graham's style, was his 
fondness for digressions ; but, as a young lady once remarked, 
" if he went from the north to the south pole for proofs, he 
brought them all home at last." In all of his views and 
opinions there was consistency — in his propositions, modesty, 
clearness, and dignity. He was remarkable for his powers 
of concentration and abstraction. He never did any thing 
by halves. Whatever were the objects immediately before 
him, he was totally engrossed in them, and so completely 
absorbed did he become, when investigating a subject, that 
he accomplished incredible feats in a very short time. He 
never allowed himself rest or change until the matter in 
hand was completed. ^ The animal part of his nature was 
always subservient to the intellectual. His mind once 
awakened to the consideration jof a subject, or occupied in 
analyzing its relations or bearings, he would forget either to 
eat or sleep, and go through with his daily duties like one in 
a dream. The last word at night and the first in the morn- 
ing, would bear upon the subject that seemed never to have 



52 MEMOIR OF 

been absent from his thoughts. The most trifling event 
would minister to his purpose, and be made available for the 
illustration of his theory, or the embellishment of his dis- 
course. He wrote with great freedom and rapidity; with 
confidence in his ability to assert or defend his position, but 
with such low estimation of the merit of what he wrote, that 
a single slighting word would induce him to throw aside 
what it had given him sincere pleasure to compose. 

I have spoken thus freely, and at length, of the qualities 
which gave to Mr. Graham pre-eminence, and gained for 
him the admiration and esteem of men older and more learn- 
ed than himself But the gentlemen were not alone in their 
just appreciation of the youthful scholar. The powers of his 
mind were neither undervalued nor unappreciated by the 
gentler sex ; but, as in the estimation of a true woman, " one 
heart is w^orth a thousand heads," so the attractions which 
won their admiration and love, were the fruits of the gentle 
and generous, rather than of the more brilliant characteris- 
tics of his genius. With the ladies he was a universal 
favourite. I never knew the woman who, having spent an 
hour in his society, did not look upon him ever after with 
interest. It is a sweeping assertion, but it is true. Why 
was this 7 Not because he sought to win her favour by those 
trifling attentions and idle compliments, so profusely be- 
stowed by that contemptible thing, called, in common par- 
lance, " a ladies' man." Far from it. He was too absent in 
manner, too unhackneyed in the ways of the world for the 
former, and he despised too much, even an appearance of 
insincerity, for the latter. Neither was it by a show of 
interest that he did not feel, nor an affectation of sentiment 
that would have been as disagreeable as unnatural. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 53 

Women, whatever may be their station or advantages of 
education, are acute observers, and it required no close obser- 
vation to read, in the simplicity and sweetness of Mr. Gra- 
ham's manners, the genuine kindness of his heart. He bore 
within himself a standard of lofty honour, of pure sentiment, 
of high and heavenly virtue, the visible manifestations of 
which the wealth of his intellect served only to adorn. The 
tone of his conversation, with a woman, always conveyed a 
compliment to her intellectual powers. It was playful, poeti- 
cal, and complimentary, but always philosophical. It was 
elevating, exciting, and improving. It was full of thought 
and fruitful in expression. It awakened in the mind a finer 
sense of inward loveliness. There never existed a human 
being more destitute of vanity. There was a child-like sim- 
plicity (I had almost said credulity) in the credence he gave 
to compliments and kind words, and they fell upon his heart 
like the dew upon the violet, refreshing and invigorating, but 
working no change in its natural humility. There was an 
instinctive shrmking from any thing like display. He was 
calm, often cold, in his manners, but even then a careless 
word would often unveil the glowing and susceptible heart 
beneath. In answer to a charge of coldness, he once wrote : 
" There is an Indian reserve, a northern guardedness, in my 
constitution, in regard to the expression of feeling, the origin 
of which I think I could explain, metaphysically, from my 
own history, but which I have tried in vain to conquer, and 
which those who love me, must learn to look through." 

One of h# peculiarities was an absolute loathing of any 
thing like affectation — it was indeed 
5* 



54 MEMOIR OP 

" his perfect scorn, 
Object of his implacable disgust." 



One of his few faults, (and at the risk of being accused of a 
judgment blinded by partiality, I dare to say that he had very 
few,) was a want of charity for defects of this character. 
The above quotation was a favourite one with him — and but 
faintly expressed his dislike of this fault, whether exhibited 
in sentiment or manner, at home or abroad. 

I can attempt no description of the personal appearance of 
Mr. Graham. The engraving prefixed to this volume is one 
of Sartain's happiest efforts, but fails, as the highest triumph 
of the art must do, to give the earnest expression of the clear 
blue eyes. There was a brow expressive of intellect and 
gentleness, raven hair for love to twine into glossy curls, a 
fragile delicacy of form that kept ever alive its anxiety and 
tenderness, and mingling with, and visible through all, a 
purity of soul, a refined chasteness of manner, that won for 
him at once confidence and esteem. There was all that was 
necessary to render him attractive in the eyes of those who 
loved him, but there was little to win the notice of the 
stranger, unl^s it was the expression of his eyes. A gentle 
girl, whose high intellectual attainments and love of poetry 
and music, well fitted her to appreciate his merits, and who 
cherished for him, from their first acquaintance, a sister's 
love, once apostrophized them thus : 

" His bonnie eyes — his bonnie eyes, 

So deeply, brightly blue. 
Oh ! they are like the evening skies, 

When stars are shining through ! 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 55 

His eyes ! his spirit haunting eyes, 

Awaking such sweet dreams, 
They're ever Uving fairy tales, - 

Of soft and shadowy streams ! 
A world of quiet beauty Ues 

In every gentle glance, 
A world of music, half unknown. 

To make the spirit dance. 

His eyes — they are two magic lights, 

Beguiling all our own ; 
Will-'o-the-wisps, that lead us by 

The brightest paths we've known. 
His very thoughts, while unexpressed. 

With witchery they declare, 
And as we listen, it would seem, 

His soul is gazing there ! 

Oh ! I may bless those bonnie eyes. 

That look oft-times so kindly, 
For they have witched dull hours along, 

Too sweetly and too blindly. 
Their star-light gleams upon my path. 

With such unclouded light, 
I ken full well their absence hath 

Turned many a day to night. 

When nature made our W^illie's eyes, 

She surely " broke her mould," 
For glance like his has never since 

Been either bought or sold. 
His bonnie eyes — his bonnie eyes. 

So deeply, brightly blue, 
Oh ! they are like the evening skies. 

When stars are shining through !" 

The heart that felt, and the fair hand that composed these 
lines, have long been cold in the grave ; and, therefore, I have 



gg MEMOIR OF 

felt no hesitation as to the propriety of inserting them here. 
Their author was " a bright particular star" in the circle I 
have been describing ; and, next to Mr. Graham, contributed 
most to the pleasures of the younger and gayer portion of 
it ; and when, in the first bloom of youth and hope, death 
claimed her as his prey, her loss made a void which was 
never re-filled. 

" Her life, as day springs blush, was brief, 

As early bloom or dew — 
Alas ! 'tis but the withered leaf, 

That wears the enduring hue." 

Such was William S. Graham when first I enjoyed the 
pleasure of his intimate acquaintance; such the circum- 
stances surrounding him, and such the impression he pro- 
duced upon my own mind, and the estimation in which he 
was held by others. The pen which has drawn the picture, 
is feeble and unpractised ; the lights and shades are defective 
in harmony and strength, but love has been the inspirer and 
truth the guide ; so, remembering this, let the stranger and 
the critic throw over its faults the veil of mercy, and the 
hearts of those who knew him, burn within them as they 
read. 

The subject of this memoir was still engaged in the ardu- 
ous duty of building up Newark academy. He was superin- 
tending a boarding establishment of sixty boys. 

" Not only pinioned down to teach 
The syntax and the parts of speech ; 
Those duties which but ill befit 
The love of letters and of wit ;" 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 57 

but what is still greater drudgery to a manly mind, to extend 
his attention to the providing of daily food, and superintend- 
mg the domestic arrangements of so large a household. Yet 
he found time to keep pace with the doings of the little 
world immediately about him. He commenced the study of 
Hebrew, and in a note written some four weeks after, thus 
describes his progress: "I have a long Hebrew lesson to 
night — twice my usual quantity. I begin to feel easy about 
Hebrew. Every subject, but especially a language which 
consists of arbitrary forms and changes, must appear a mass 
of difficulty to one not acquainted with it. So Hebrew 
seemed to me a week ago — but I've got the right string 
now — I have not learned so much since, but I am on the 
track. I know liow to learn, and henceforth my work is 
free from the disorder and confusion of the unexplored dark- 
ness that enveloped it at first. Every new fact now I can 
remember, because I have the principle upon which to hang 
it. Before — ^but why am I talking to you of Hebrew'? — I 
know not, except that I feel very happy at the light that has 
all at once burst into the dark nooks of the old language, 
making a noon of midnight." 

The intimate acquaintance of Mr. Graham, for a year or 
more, with a lady, residing in Newark, resulted in an en- 
gagement and his marriage, October 3, 1843. During this 
period he was necessarily much confined in the academy, 
when his thoughts were elsewhere, and numberless notes 
and letters were exchanged between them. In my selec- 
tion of extracts from these, as in the whole course of this 
work, I have endeavoured to recollect his feelings, and 
made it a rule to reject whatever my perfect intimacy with 



gg MEMOIR OP 

those feelings would lead me to suppose his spirit would bid 
me lay aside as unfit for publication. Certain it is, that 
living, he would have shrunk from this exposure of his 
heart's deepest feelings — but it is equally true, that there is 
not one line which, dying, he would wish to blot. For my- 
self, the same resolution which has enabled me to put aside 
all consciousness of personal interest in his history, and, 
with a purely intellectual admiration, put together these 
fragments, sustains me still in this sacrifice of my most 
sensitive feeling upon the altar of his fame. 

"You want this great sheet full and 'close' — Well! if I 
had an inspired pen, that is, a little, nimble, locomotive 
sprite, incarnated in a goose quill, and subject to the control 
of my will as completely as are the bumps that play in the 
manufacture of its thoughts ; (and why might not finely con- 
trived writing machinery be connected by chains of electri- 
city or otherwise, to the bumps of the brain, so as to transfer 
their variations in the constant current of thought to paper — 
and thus make thinking, when the machinery was arranged, 
equivalent to writing 1) if I had either of these desirables — 
or if through these eyes I could send a ray direct fi*om that 
secret tablet on which the heart's dearest records are en- 
graved, with power to carry and enstamp on paper a perfect 
transcript of the original — if by any, or all of these means, 
or by any other method, the manual, physical restraints upon 
expression were removed, and the motions of the etherial 
spirit unchained from the slow accommodations of fleshly 
fingers and material pens; then, E. D. G., not this poor 
sheet of paper, but the broad sky would be too narrow to 
hold the myriad of free thoughts that now die unknown, or 
slumber where they were born, around thy image in the 
soul. 

"What means the everlasting play of the tongue, the 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



59 



flashmg" of the eye, the shadowy variations of the cheek, 
and when these are insufficient, the labours of the pen — the 
* tongue of the absent? What mean all these, but to prove 
that the soul is shut up— like a caged bird springing to this 
outlet and to that opening, and able, alter all, only to send 
through the wires of its prison some notes of bondage ] 
What are the pressure of the hand — the modulation of the 
voice — the blotting of paper, but the poor contrivances of 
prisoners, in different cells, to communicate with each other] 
And yet how sweet is intercourse and friendly converse, 
even subject to all these inconveniences'? What, then, will 
be the joy of social converse in a world, where all these 
hindrances will be gone — when one glance of the unveiled 
soul will carry more meaning of love and thought, than all 
language, and all sounds are now capable of expressing? 
Heigho! if I were AVTiting a sermon on the Society of 
Heaven, this should be the subject of my Introduction. 

" / love you ! There are eight crooked marks, which we 
call letters. I have put them there as signs of a certain 
fact. You will receive, through your eye, a notice of those 
signs, but how do you know what I mean by them ? As to 
the general meaning, perhaps, we understand each other, 
but until you know what that feeling of mine is, which I call 
love, you never can know what I mean, and you can only 
know what that feeling is, through the signs, whose very 
significance is the matter to be discovered. The language 
which I use, I use in my own sense, and you hear it in your 
own sense. The light which leaves me, has to pass through 
the atmosphere of my mind, which gives to it its own colour, 
and to reach you, it has to pass through the atmosphere of 
your mind, which still farther modifies it. It is as if you 
looked with green spectacles upon a bird in a blue glass 
cage. How can you determine the colour of the bird ] It 
is as if through your ear-trumpet you heard my voice already 
magnified by concentration in a whispering-gallery. How 



60 



MEMOIR OF 



can you tell the loudness of my voice? But there is one 
comfort left — every one looks through his own spectacles, 
and can change them to suit himself, and, moreover, some 
people wear magnifying glasses, very much to the improve- 
ment of some of us. I want you to look at me through your 
glasses, and if you wish to translate that hard sentence of 
eight characters ahove, do, as you needs must do, go down 
into the holy chambers of your own kind heart, and in the 
echo of your own ten-thousand glowing thoughts, discover 
the meaning of ' Love' there. But there is a word in that 
sentence harder to translate than Love — You! What a 
crooked body for a beautiful soul is that same word, with its 
incarnated meaning? Thou little twistified goblin of ugli- 
ness ! ' Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie thy soul's 
immensity !' Thou perverse, dilapidated, uncouth, dark- 
browed dungeon of an angelic thought ! Thou oyster-shell 
enclosing a gem ! Thou dark shadow of bright beauty ! 
What shall I say to thee ? By the almighty infusing energy 
of a soul, I breathe into thee the breath of a glorious life ! 
Through every crack and crevice of thy unsightly crust, 
beams the brightness of concealed beauty ! — ' You /' Thou 
temple of a divinity ! — ' You /' Here is brightness under 
blackness, and beauty under deformity. Around those un- 
sightly hieroglyphics cluster the sweetest memories and 
dearest hopes of the soul. On every crook and hook of 
their deformity are suspended visions of joy and dreams of 
delight ! Even as the eye clothes the naked earth in loveli- 
ness, spreading a thousand beauteous colours on land and 
sea, and as the soul pours out on the world the brightness of 
its own being, and adorns for herself the abode which has 
been assigned her — so has this heart of mine built up and 
adorned a temple for its abode, out of those crooked sticks. 
You ! And they begin to lose their crookedness, and a bright 
face and kind eyes look out from every corner of their evolu- 
tions ; their stiffness relaxes into a smile, such as I have seen 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



61 



before, and their original ugliness is lost under a halo of dear 
thoughts, an atmosphere of bright clouds. 

******* 

" And this reminds me, tliat I threatened to tell you in 
this letter what I think of you. * How do you know, Sir, 
what to think of me 1 According to the philosophy of your 
last letter, the image of my character, which you have in 
your mind, must have been so modified by the two atmo- 
spheres of feeling through which it had to pass before it 
reached you, that you cannot judge of its correctness.' Don't 
believe a word of it I believe in the pure reason, in a 
power in the soul to discover, and recognize, and hold on to 
the truth, in spite of all the misrepresentations of the senses, 
and spite of all fallacious appearances to the contrary. Has 
not the sun every morning, for 6000 years, declared to the 
eyes of our race, that he rises and rolls round the world, and 
sets'? Have not the moon and stars, every evening, taken 
up the same wondrous tale, and, 'nightly to the listening- 
earth,' repeated the same story] Has not dame Nature 
worn false colours on her cheek, and told man that the innu- 
merable tints of loveliness that he sees, are her own, and 
there is no deception in them? Has not the atmosphere 
conspired to cheat the ear, and sent through it a message — a 
lying message, to the soul, that the universe was full of sweet 
sounds'? Has not the whole world spread its ties around 
man's five senses, until he can see nothing, hear nothing-, 
feel nothing — as it is — without being cheated by misrepre- 
sentations] And has not the soul found it ouf? Has she 
not taken the innumerable falsehoods that her five ungrate- 
ful servants have sent in to her, and, putting them into her 
crucible, proved them to be lies, and discovered the truth 
at the bottom ] Has she not torn the mask from the face of 
the universe, and contradicted the falsehoods of the heavens 
and the earth, and told the sun that he does not move 
around ihe earth — Nature, that her cheek is pale, as her 
heart is false — and Sense, that he is an arrant impostor] And 
6 



Q2 MEMOIR OP 

how has she done it) She has but five witnesses in the 
investig-ation — they all tell lies. She judges and convicts 
them all. Where learned she the knowledge which ena- 
bles her to correct the senses'? Locke says, 'From expe- 
rience through the senses.' But here we have the soul 
proving and asserting truth in direct opposition to all she 
ever received through the senses. She never, with the 
eye, looked through the pretended beauty of the rose, and 
saw it was deception — no, the eye always said it was real. 
How, then, did man ever come to a true conclusion, in the 
midst of deceitful shadows'? Why, by the exercise of the 
pure reason — by listening to the voice of that divine spu-it 
within him, by virtue of which he is an inhabitant — not of 
earth, or of the visible heavens — but of that hidden, everlast- 
ing' universe of truth and reality, which is under and within 
this sensible universe of apparent substance and real shadow 
— that universe which existed, and in which God dwelt from 
eternity, long before he had created spirit or matter — a 
universe of truth related and connected, which Wordsworth 
calls, 'the eternal deep, haunted forever by the eternal 
mind,' on whose surface float, what we call Facts and Real- 
ities, but which are, in reality, but the bubbles thrown up by 
the working of everlasting truths below. 

:{; ^ :f: :}j :}; % :j< 

" I am here in B , and should be full of the business 

which brought me hither, but my thoughts are far away. I 
cannot get into the world around me, nor do I care to recog- 
nize it. A world of brighter and dearer objects is by a 
spiritual presence about me, and in it I live. The memory 
of past pleasures, and visions of the absent, have thrown an 
atmosphere of bright clouds around me, through which I care 
not to look upon the actual world without. The ghosts of 
two bright eyes look down upon me by day and by night. 
The eclio of a familiar voice, musical and low, I can hear 
beneath the thunder of the busy streets and in the silence 
of midnight. The gentle spirit of a smile I have loved to 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 53 

meet, glows like a wandering* sunbeam upon every object 
of sight. Lamp-posts and unsubstantial shadows put on 
forms in the twilight, which remind me of the absent. May 
not a cherished thought rest in the soul, until it is assimi- 
lated and appropriated, and enters into its very being? 
Does not the flesh ache on after the cause of the pain is re- 
moved] Does not the eye, after long gazing on a bright 
colour, transfer the tinge to the next object on which it 
rests, giving a foundation to the assertion, that beauty ' seen 
becomes a part of sight, and beams where'er we turn the 
eye V Does not the ear, accustomed to the noises of the 
rushing streets, continue to hear a noise after the streets 
are left behind 1 Does not the ocean shell, in the caves of 
the deep, learn a tune from the waves, which it carries with 
it ever after ] And may not an image rest in the soul until 
it is absorbed, and becomes a part of its very nature, and 
thenceforward enters into the constitution of all its acts and 
thoughts 1 Why is it that different souls look not alike upon 
the same object) Why is it that the falls of Niagara, 
which, to the poet, are the embodiment of sublimity and 
terrific grandeur, and to the divine an exhibition of the 
power and maJGgty of Jehovah, arc to the mechanic but an 
immense water-power, and to the tailor, but a bath to 
sponge a coat? Why is this, but that long cherished 
habits of thought have moulded the soul into their own 
image, and imparted to it a colouring which it spreads over 
every object of sense] This power of the soul, to shine 
through the senses and modify every object in the external 
world, is exerted to tyranny in the case of the maniac, who 
peoples the earth and the heavens with the creatures of his 
own imagination, and then trembles in the presence of 
what he has himself created. And do we not all, in some 
degree, exercise and submit to the same power] Is it not 
true that we ' Rainbows paint upon the skies, and beauty on 
the rose ]' But wherefore all this discourse ] Why, simply 
to say, in general, that it is a certain fact, that the human 



g4 MEMOIR OF 

soul does live under its own atmosphere of feeling and prin- 
ciple, through which every ray, from the external world, 
must pass, and by which it is refracted and tinged ; and in 
particular, it is a fact equally certain, that in the atmosphere 
of my soul, there are floatmg certain images or auroras 
through which alone every thing is seen, if seen at all, and 

that those images look very much like the smiles of 

******* 

" I love these little notes, and shall keep them as so many 
smiles of kindness, caught and daguerrotyped for future and 
lasting enjoyment. They are so many packages of kind 
feeling, which would otherwise have been lost, when they 
arose, like ungathered fruit, but which now are embalmed 
beyond the power of decay. They are so many rays of 
brightness saved from the past, to cheer and add brilliancy 
to the future. 'Tis a grand invention this, of making intelli- 
gible ' footprints on the sands of time.' 'Tis a catching the 
present and chaining it down, and giving to it a permanent 
and hnmortal existence, which else would soon be lost in the 
shadows of oblivion. 

******* 

" You speak sadly of woman's lot. It is LtLLer tlitm man'a. 

In the storm which Satan has raised in this world, he must 
go, he must meet and deal with the perversities and pas- 
sions and calamities of earth in masses, whxh rarely cross 
woman's path. She dwells in private, and is in a measure 
shielded from the tempest that howls without. Her habita- 
tion is in the vale, where the streams of love and the flowers 
of gentle affections abound, and peaceful breezes blow. 
Man's place is up on the mountain, where ambition and 
strife and pride and every evil passion like wintry tempests 
rage. / should like to live in the valley ! 

" But as things are, it is a joy to think that we, who are 
doomed to the mountain blast, may have a warm hearth down 
in the vale, and a warm heart there too, and an eye ' to mark 
our coming, and look brighter when we come !' ' There is 
not in the wide world a valley so sweet' — as that vale I 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



65 



<'It is past 11 o'clock — May the warmth and pure affection 
of your o^\^l gentle heart, which have often given the deep- 
est joy to mine, that earthly source can ftirnish, be reflect- 
ed in peaceful dreams and refreshing slumber to night, and 
rekindle the life of your heart, and the light of your eye on 
the morrow." 

« 6 o'clock, A. M. 

" Wliere are you now? Probably in the land of dreams; 
and, perhaps, while a certain fan- body is silent and still, and 
a spectator would suppose the fair spirit within asleep too — 
that spirit may be — here ! Well ! my dear little spirit, if 
you'll just sit down on that chair by my side, and look over 
this sheet, I'll talk to you by means of the ugly black strokes 
you see me scratching on this paper — the only mode given to 
mortals to transfer thought from mind to mind, without the 
intervention of two bodies. Two embodied spirits may con- 
verse, as there are two sets of physical organs, one to make 
the physical signs of thought, the other to perceive those 
signs. Two disembodied spirits may converse, as the neces- 
sity of any roundabout telegraphic means of communication 
is removed, the separating walls being broken down, and 
nothing preventing their seeing each other personally. But 
a spirit without a body, and one in the body, are in an 
awkward position, the one within, being capable of pro- 
ducing nothing outside of the walls of its prison, but some 
material effect, as a sound or motion of matter; while the 
unembodied personage has nothing in its composition which 
can, by any possibility, come in contact with such material 
physical effect. Now, my dear little spirit, you understand 
metaphysics, don't youl I know you used to, when you 
were wont to look out of a certain pair of eyes, and work 
the springs of a certain sweet toned instrument of music, we 
mortals call a tongue, and now that you are out of that dimly 
lighted cell by which your free nature is wont to be con- 
fined, I doubt not you understand the hard pomts which 

6* 



66 



MEMOIR OF 



puzzle human wits, I have half a notion to propose some 
hard problems for your solution. Can you tell me where 
originate the blues ? Are they the shadow of some passing 
spirit of evil 1 or are they the shade of some commg sorrow] 
And what is the cure for the blues ? Is it not faith 1 And 
what is the secret elixir of life, which, treasured in the 
heart, keeps in glad motion the springs of existence, and 
creates a fountain of never failing contentment and peace 1 
Is it not faith 1 Such perfect overcoming faith as God will 
never disappoint, and Satan would be ashamed to, if he 
could. Such faith as the lion, raging with hunger, respects, 
when he passes undisturbed the trusting sleeper. 

" My fair little spirit, I am afraid you will be tired of so 
much of the dreamy — but before you go, let me say to you a 
few things. In the first place, you are a very dear little 
spirit, and I have been very happy in your visit, and shall 
expect you to visit me again. I want you to be my guar- 
dian spirit, and accompany me often when I know it not. 
When you go back to your body, I want you to light up those 
eyes, behind which you hide, with the brightness of happiness 
and joy. I want you to throw a lustre through the veil of 
flesh in which you must be shrouded, and create a perpetual 
summer in that face, and if there must sometimes be show- 
ers, let them be summer showers. I want you to be happy, 
and by faith to become superior to every occasion of painful 
grief I want you to live in a world adorned by the glorious 
thoughts that form the atmosphere of a pure and noble soul. 

I want you, too, my good little sprite, to tell Mrs. that 

this visit was merely a dream, as old, sober folks don't 
approve of lady spirits visiting gentlemen. But, above all, 
don't forget, when you get back to your body, and resume 
the control of those little fingers, to write me a good long 
letter, full of all the good things which flow naturally from a 
good heart." 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. QJ 

" Sunday, 12 o'clock. 
" This is a bright day here — 

* Blest day ! so calm, so fair, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
The dews shall weep thy fate to night. 

For thou must die !' 

Whence comes and whither goes the brightness and beauty 
of which we catch but glimpses on the earth ? Through the 
clouds that encompass this world, shine the beams of distant 
and unknown glories. Every tinge that decks the sky, 
every particle of beauty in the sea, the diamond and the 
flower, every atom of beauty that the eye looks upon, comes 
from a distant world, the sun. The earth, then, alone, is not 
man's abode. Even his present being is incomplete, and 
would be intolerable, if his resources were confined to the 
boundaries of earth. But if his very body is made for the 
Universe, if even its narrow wants and capacities cannot be 
filled by earth, how msufficient is such a world for the soul ! 
It is the characteristic of what Coleridge calls the sensuous 
philosophy — the philosophy of Locke, to confine the soul to 
its five senses, , and the little world they reveal, for all its 
ideas, its thoughts and emotions. But has the soul no dreams 
of splendour, such as the earth never presented 7 Whence 
came those dreams'? The very same infinite spirit that 
shines in the sun, and sends from afar the glory of the visible 
universe, robing matter with beauty not its own — that same 
spirit shines through the universe of mind, adorning it with 
glory and lightmg it up with beauty. As the earth would 
be but a dark and frozen clod, where the body would wither 
and die, were it not for the light and heat of other worlds, 
so the soul, unenlightened and unquickened from on high, 
must sink to decay and death. May we even on earth walk 
in the light of heaven ! May we train our minds to love and 
obey those great and everlastmg truths of the miiverse, 



gQ MEMOIR OF 

which will abide and sustain us when the earth is burned up ! 
The truth is the only foundation that will stand, when the 
heavens depart as a scroll. Let our feet be upon that basis, 
and we are as secure as the throne of God." 

^^ Wednesday morning, 6^ o'clock. — Your eyes are shut, 
and you are dreaming of whom 1 'Tis rather a dark morn- 
ing, but the gloom is brightness, as it brmgs coolness. Yes- 
terday I wrote the first paragraph of this letter, just while 
you wrote your note to me. This morning I am writing this, 
while you dreaming, perhaps, of its arrival to-morrow morn- 
ing. To-morrow morning, while I write my next, you will 
be reading this. Thus, dearest, our lives are and will be 
intertwined, and the currents of our thoughts will flow in a 
common channel, and be modified by each other. The series 
of thoughts which will make up my conscious existence for 
the rest of my being, wUl be one in which thy image will 
constantly recur, and through which the one idea will be the 
secret controlling element. So, upon thee I have left an 
impress which thou wilt never efface. Thou art not what 
thou wouldst have been, had I never seen thee, and thou 
never canst be again. ' I've charmed thee with a talisman, 
I've sealed thee with a seal !' and circumstances, and time 
and eternity itself, have lost their power to reverse the spell. 
If two of the spheres should meet and unite from their differ- 
ent orbits, the resultant direction of the united pair, pro- 
duced by the combination of their former tendencies mutu- 
ally modified, would roll on forever through new regions 
unvisited by either before. So, we go to regions in com- 
pany, which, had we never met, neither had ever seen. Do 
you remember the philosophy of ' A Year after Marriage'' — 
the two becoming one ] I forget now what it was exactly — 
but it will do for a text and an apology for writing a thought 
which has just struck my fancy, being arrived direct from 
the aforesaid ' spheres.' 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. QQ 

" What is your existence 1 Is it not a series of thoughts ^ 
Did you ever have, or be, any thing but a thought ^ Change 
every thought, and are you not changed 1 Did you ever 
examine the foundations of your soul, or feel any thing v^^ithin 
you, but thoughts — pleasant, painful, grave or gay 1 Were 
you cold, did you know any thing further than the thought 
of cold 1 * * * Now, if I could give you a 

little pill which would gradually operate on your thoughts, 
changing their character by degrees, until you should not 
have a single thought, in whole or in part, the same as you 
would otherwise have had ; then, if your consciousness re- 
mained unchanged, it would no longer recognize its owner. 
You would feel, ' it's not I.' But if the aforesaid pill should 
also sink in its effects down into the very consciousness, and 
change it, then would you — I mean not your hand, nor face, 
nor body, but you — be entirely another without knowing it. 
Moreover, if this pill should be given in the shape of 
thoughts, and feelings new and different from any previously 
possessed, and exerting a power to modify previous mental 
habits, and to impart their own colours, and wear their own 
channel in the soul, the effects of the pill would be the 
same, as far as a change in your being is concerned, as 
before, and the change thus wrought would be one of assimi- 
lation to the character of the thoughts communicated, and of 
the soul from whence the thoughts came. If, moreover, at 
the same time, by filling my being with influences derived 
from your own, you should give me a pill, whose effect 
would be to assimilate my nature to yours, then would there 
be going on a double process of assimilation, in which, by the 
interchange of elements, the characteristics of two beings 
were becoming the same. Thus, even as the food taken into 
the stomach, being digested, becomes part of ourselves, and 
determines the character of the flesh which it forms, so the 
thoughts and feelings of each being constantly poured into 
the mind of the other, and there digested, become part of 



70 



MEMOIR OF 



our minds or proper selves, and determine our character. 
If this process should ever become perfect, then two would 
be one truly and really. This is no piece of fancy work, for 
it is the very process by which Christ, giving his Spirit and 
word to his people, is taking to make them one with him, 
and with each other, and that, too, by which the wicked and 
their master are deepening the unity of their ranks. It is 
a process which is going on between all companions, and 
assimilating them to each other, and which even modifies 
the character of plants and animals. May we, dearest, 
become one in reality, and being one in each other, be also 
one with Him who is one with the Father."* 

* The reader will, I am sure, forgive the editor for inserting 
here, on his own responsibility, a few specimens of quite another 
kind of letters, written, at the same period, to the same address : 



Dear E. D. G., 

Expect from me, 
A little note to-night ; 

It must be wee, 

If it comes from me, 
For I've no time to write. 

From nine to four, 

Some half a score 
Of strangers held me tight ; 

And now, once more 

I must look o'er 
My Hebrew, to recite. 



Dear E. D. G., 
I love to see 
Thy face adorned with light; 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. ■yj 

Mr. Graham's marriage took place at the commencement 
of the fall vacation ; the remainder of it was spent in visiting" 
the principal cities of New England. One of his peculiari- 
ties was his aversion to travelling, and a dislike of novelty 
and sight-seeing. When forced, by the wishes of others, to 
seek recreation in change of scene, he turned an apparently 
inattentive ear to all that went on in the crowd around him, 
and whiled the hours away in conversation or reading. 
Often, too, he would sit enwrapped in the mazes of some 
metaphysical theory, and be roused from it, only to mingle 
his speculations with all that he said or did. The versatility 
of his talents, the fluency of his language, the light he could 
throw upon the most abstruse subjects, rendered him always 
an entertaining and delightful companion. 

And thy fair e'e 
Shall be to me, 
Than evening star more bright. 



Now, E. D. G., where'er you be, 
A wandering thought bestow on me ; 
And I shall live in dreams of thee, 
And round me aye thy beauty see. 



W. 



Dear E. D. G., 

Though you are free. 
And I'm no longer tied, 

Yet you shall be 

Far more to me, 
Than all the world beside ! 

W. S. G. 



lyg MEMOIR OF 

A visit to Northampton and Mt. Holyoke had been one of 
the original objects of our trip. Circumstances hastened our 
return, and a visit to both being impossible, a hurried excur- 
sion to Mt. Holyoke was decided upon. Mr. Graham accom- 
panied us to the top of the mountain. He was full of life, 
amiability, and animation. No one would have supposed 
that a disappointed hope rested on his heart. It was not 
until months after, that a remark, inadvertently escaping 
from his lips, betrayed what he had felt. He said, "I 
would rather have sat in the house in which Jonathan 
Edwards lived, or stood by the grave where Brainerd is 
buried, than have seen all else that New England could 
offer. So unselfish was he, so silent where there was dan- 
ger of his own wishes and those of another coming in oppo- 
sition. 

On his return to Newark, he purchased and removed to a 
pleasant house. He retained his situation as Principal of the 
academy, but resigned into the hands of his brother, who 
resided in the building, the charge of the boarding depart- 
ment. The next eighteen months were spent in teaching, 
from five to six hours each day, in many extraneous efforts 
to build up the academy, in planning and executing improve- 
ments in his own house and garden, and in the cares and 
enjoyments of domestic life. 

An employment which requires the repetition of nearly the 
same routine of duties cannot be very prolific in incident, or 
very favourable to the development of those qualities which 
attract the public eye. Mr. Graham was endued with a 
rare faculty for communicating knowledge, and with a power 
to awaken and call into action the mental energies of youth. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 173 

His abilities as a teacher have been fully proved. His pupils 
are scattered over the length and breadth of the land. After 
his immediate friends, they will probably be the principal 
readers of this memoir, and there is no need to tell them of 
his entire devotion to the v^relfare of his scljolars — how 
attentive to their peculiarities of character, how happy in 
discovering the best avenue of approach to their minds ; or 
how, possessing in a high degree the talent of simplifying 
instruction and varying its form, he succeeded in that most 
difficult part of a teacher's work, the inducing youth to take 
an interest in their own improvement, and educate them- 
selves by exerting their own faculties. The amount of 
labour bestowed by him upon every individual scholar, the 
hours of thought expended in the study of character, and the 
best means of discipline, can only be estimated by a bosom 
companion. It may be partially shown, however, by the 
fact, that while unacquainted with the faces of more than 
one-third of his pupils, upon hearing the name of any one 
on his list, I could have given an accurate report of his mind 
and disposition. 

A gentleman, whose son was for a long time under his 
care, thus writes : " My son, then an indulged and erratic 
boy, w^as sent to Mr. Graham, and remained with him until 
prepared for entrance into college. During the period of 
his probation, he was treated with great care, kindness, and 
attention ; and all the duties of the preceptor and guardian 
were discharged with fidelity, and a directness of purpose 
and success, that secured my entire approbation. In con- 
versation with Mr. Graham, upon the subject of education, 
he told me, that he considered it the duty of a teacher, as it 
7 



y^ MEMOIR OP 

was certainly iii his power, to bring into subjection to disci- 
plinary rule, every pupil in his charge; that this rule ad- 
mitted of no exception, and that it could be effected without 
rigour or severity. I believe he never failed to accomplish 
his fixed and beneficial purposes. From the means and 
opportunities afforded me, I formed the opmion, that he was 
one of the best qualified, efficient, and successful teachers 
of youth I had ever known ; and when my son was removed 
from his charge, I solicited him, as a friend, to continue to 
throw around his former pupil the segis of his influence and 
protection. I found him as willing to serve a friend, as he 
had been to fulfil the obligations of his vocation, 

* Still wise to counsel — ready to relieve.' " 

Mr. Graham loved to teach ; he entered with enthusiasm 
into whatever he undertook. A decision once formed with 
him was final. And whatever his hand found to do, he did 
it with all his might. The perfect self-control, which was 
a distinguishing trait in his character, gave him incalculable 
power over others, and produced an immeasurable effect. 
His keenness of observation, quickness of perception, and 
strong, calm reasoning powers, gave into his grasp the very 
heart-strings of those immediately about him. Sometimes 
forgetting, in his own strength, the weakness of another, 
he would press them with no gentle hand. From the still 
chambers of a well governed mind, he gathered an influence 
which, penetrating mto the inmost recesses of weaker na- 
tures, moulded them to his will. But he never abused this 
power. Its basis consisted in his own strict adherence to the 
rule of right, and the truth was his only weapon. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM, 75 

" His mind was keen, 
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs ; 
And in his Shepherd's calling, he was prompt 
And watchful, more than other men." 

Mr. Graham's disposition was admirably adapted to give 
zest to the enjoyments of the home circle. His aptness at 
coining amusement out of the most trifling incident, perpe- 
tually relieved the monotony of domestic life. He was 
never so happy as, when seated in his own room, he was 
employed in some trifling effort, mental or mechanical, to 
add to the comfort of the household, or give pleasure to some 
individual member of the family. I well remember one 
sultry afternoon, when overwearied at the academy, he re- 
turned home to rest, my youngest sister meeting him in the 
hall, pressed into his hand her little album, with a request 
for some poetry. In vain he pleaded incapacity, and threw 
himself upon the sofa ; still she persevered, and bringing pen 
and ink, stood by him while he wrote the following : 

Sallie, if I had a peach, 

Or an apple soft and sweet, 
Such as Eve once jumped to reach, 

And to Adam gave to eat; 
Or a golden orange, which 

Scarce can hold its precious store, 
Or a water-melon rich, 

Fresh arrived from Jersey's shore ; 

Then perchance my thoughts might flow, 

Mingling with the juicy tide, 
And the willing couplets go 

To their places side by side, 



76 MEMOIR OP 

And prophetic visions bright 

Hover o'er the glowing page. 
On thy future flashing light, 

Downward far to hoary age : 

But no peach or apple here, 

Tempts poetic thought to fly, 
Fancy's visions disappear 

When the throat or brain is dry. 

A few months afterward, the same little hook was handed 
to him on New Year's Eve, and a^ain received an im- 
promptu : — 

TO S . 

'Tis the first night of the bran new year, 

And Sallie must have a song, 
A song like herself will be sweet, 'tis clear, 

But wont be very long. 

'Tis the first night of the bran new year. 

The good year Forty-five : 
May all of its days bring pleasant cheer, 
And whisper good tidings in Sallie's ear, 
And when they are gone, still leave her here 

To keep us all alive. 

*Tis the first night of a bran new year — 

May Sallie see many more ! 
And as time glides on without a tear, * 
May she ever be happy as now, and here, 
Nor know a worse time than the good old year. 

The dead year Forty-four. 

In commencing the above piece, a mistake was made, 
two or three lines blotted over, and a new page taken, but 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 'j"j' 

when it was finished, turning back to the blotted page, Mr. 
Graham filled it up with these verses — 

Those gloomy lines that frown above, and rouse the reader's 

wonder, 
Are but the epitaphs of thoughts, now dead and buried under, 
Like some, perhaps, on History's page — no tedious task to find 

them. 
They've pass away, and only left a wretched blot behind them. 

The scribe that wrote the lines above, then blotted every letter. 
Bethought to write the lines below, to make the mischief better ; 
So, reader, if you ever chance to make a doleful blunder, 
Go boldly on and try again, and keep the mischief under. 

These stanzas are not inserted here to win praise by 
their poetical merit, but merely to show how many hours of 
quiet family intercourse were rendered delightful by his 
rhyming abilities and playful fancies. Although differing 
very much in those outward semblances which "strike a 
stranger," there existed between us great congeniality of 
taste and sentiment, and that admiration of each other 
which is necessary to perfect friendship. His talent for 
versification was a constant source of pleasure to me, and I 
took great delight in its encouragement. It was kept con- 
stantly in exercise by some such incident as the following. 
Asserting one evening his incapacity to write poetry to 
order, he was "ordered" to produce, in half an hour, an 
acrostic, the measure, metre, and last word in every line 
corresponding with Byron's stanza — 

" The sky is changed, and such a change ! O night, 
And storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman. Far along 
7* 



78 MEMOIR OF 

From peak to peak the rattling crags among, 

Leaps the Hve thunder ; not from one lone cloud, 

But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers from her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps that call to her aloud !" 

A few moments before the expiration of the half hour, he 
handed me the following — 

A poet once, at ten o'clock at night. 
Called on the muse, with imprecation strong. 
Right down to come, with all her extra light, 
On moonbeam sped, like shooting star, along. 
Safely to guide his struggling pen among 
The crooks of rhyme, and lighten up the cloud 
In which his verse was lost, and fire his tongue. 
Clothed with her power, she came in starry shroud, 
Kindled his tongue, till thus it sang aloud : — 

Earth hath no beauty like to thine. Oh night! 
Dear is thy power o'er the rapt soul, and strong ; 
Glad thoughts are kmdled by the magic light, 
In beauty shed thy starry brow along. 
Light is thy step, the slumbering spheres among. 
But heard by poets' ear, o'er silvery cloud. 
E'en like the echo of an angel's tongue. 
Rousing dear memories from their buried shroud, 
Till the full soul o'erflows in lofty strains aloud. 

Each gem that glitters in the crown of night. 
Day's opening glow, and noontide splendours strong, 
Gray evening's blush of parting golden light. 
Imprinting smiles the blazing hills along ; 
Loveliest the ranks of beauteous worlds among, 
Bright Venus, free from veil of envious cloud — 
Earth's fairest forms henceforth shall find a tongue, 
Reaching the spirit 'neath its fleshly shroud, 
To speak thy name, and praise in silence, yet aloud ! 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. >yg 

During the winter I commenced copying into a blank- 
book, that Mr. Graham had given me, such of his pieces as 
I had seen, and the original manuscripts of which were 
lying about among his papers. He was absent at the time, 
but upon his return seemed very much gratified at the unex- 
pected compliment, and takmg up the book, wrote upon its 
first page, this dedication. 

TO E. D. G. 

Dear friend, more dear in the charms of truth, 

Than fancy's pictures be, 
These remnants (poor,) of the dreams of youth, 

I consecrate to thee. 

Thine are they by a double right. 

For thine is their fountain free, 
And dearer dreams and hopes more bright, 

Hast thou conferred on me ! 

He had no time for study. There was no possibility of 
his accomplishing any thing worthy of his genius in the 
midst of such pressing daily duties ; and a constant dread of 
that scourge of his family, consumption, rendered complete 
relaxation necessary upon the slightest symptom of over 
fatigue. Although constitutionally and apparently delicate, 
his general health was remarkably good. To nervousness, 
dyspepsia, and other ills that all flesh seems heir to, he was 
an entire stranger. With the exception of one attack of 
illness, and an occasional toothache, for six years I never 
heard him complain of a physical pain. Yet so deep had 
been the impression made by the sudden entrance of death 
into his family, and so terrible and continued had been its 



QQ MEMOIR OP 

visitations, sweeping one of the little band into the grave 
almost every year, that he was never free from an expecta- 
tion of its appearance in his owti system. He had learned 
to think with horror upon the racking cough, and the sleep- 
less nights attendant upon this most Imgermg disease ; and 
regarding it ever as his eventual doom, he shrank even from 
an allusion to a fate so terrible. His trust in the merciful 
care of a kind Providence was unshaken ; his hope of heaven 
rested securely upon the Rock of Ages. Religion was in 
him a living and quickenmg power. It sanctified every 
hope and affliction; it was visible alike in the closet, the 
family, and the outer world. It shone with the calm ra- 
diance of assured hope, and not the fitful gleam of transient 
or excited feeling. 

But his gentle and rather timid nature, all unused to 
bodily suffering, shrunk from paui. He clung with strong 
affection to life. Many fond hopes and aspirations for use- 
fulness had been hoarded for long years in his heart. Not- 
withstanding his naturally retiring and modest disposition, a 
consciousness of mental power, and an ardent desire for lite- 
rary distinction, began to awake withm him. But when 
urged to prepare some of his writings for publication, he 
replied, "not until I have time, not until I can really study. 
I am ashamed of every thing I ever wrote." 

It would be doing great injustice to Mr. Graham's charac- 
ter, not to notice its peculiar beauty in the new relation 
which he had assumed. His elder sister, residing in the 
west, in congratulating him upon his marriage, thus writes : 
" It is a trite expression, that a good son and brother always 
makes a good husband. If this be true, I need give to you, 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. gj 

dear William, no lectures ; your perfection in these relations 
has long- been appreciated, and in the new one you have 
formed, may you find your reward." I have spoken of his 
endeavours to make his home happy to all who dwelt 
therein, but how shall I describe the unfailing sweetness of 
his temper, as shown to the one most dependent upon his 
kindness and his love 1 It was an unfailing fountain, flow- 
ing most freely in hours of sadness, and ever ready with its 
beauty and purity to dissipate the clouds which her cares 
and anxieties do not fail sometimes to gather around the 
heart of a wife and mother. With literal truth it can be 
said of him, that he never uttered a cold word, nor cast even 
a cold look upon the being he had vowed to love and cherish. 
His temperament was singularly equable. With him gentle 
and winning manners were not the mere assumed habili- 
ments of polite intercourse, but the living expression of an 
enlarged and comprehensive benevolence, the offspring of a 
real and fervent piety. Although reserved and calm in his 
general manner, he was full of a refined and confiding 
sportiveness when we were alone. He was especially care- 
ful to save me from disappointment or suspense. His letters, 
which, from an early period of our acquaintance, had been 
an especial source of pleasure to me, are evidences of this. 
Durmg our short absences from each other, he was in the 
habit of writing very frequently. He would fix the time for 
writing before the hour for separation, and never, except in 
one instance, failed to keep his word. He was far more dis- 
turbed at this, than the occasion warranted, and a closely 
written letter, awaited my arrival at home, for the purpose, 
to use his own expression, " of renewing my faith." 



82 MEMOIR OF 

If he had appointed an hour to return home, I was perfect- 
ly sure of his arrival. Yet, in his intercourse with others, 
he was not remarkable for punctuality. He had very little 
method in conducting his business, or in the expenditure of 
his time, and he did not expect, in case of failure, to en- 
counter at home either impatience or over anxiety. This 
was but one specimen of the e very-day character of his 
domestic life. It was a perpetual exliibition of self-forget- 
ting, self-sacrificing love. Although very decided when any 
principle of right or duty was concerned, he was easily per- 
suaded in trifles. He was very indifferent to the petty evils 
of life, and very independent of its luxuries and refinements. 
The pomps and splendors of the world had no charms for 
him; his o\\ti home, and the simple pleasures surrounding 
him, were far more beautiful in his eyes. His perception 
of those trifling acts of affection, which give to life its 
greatest charm, was acute, and his gratitude for kindness 
almost boundless. But extracts from his own letters will 
illustrate the traits of character to which I allude, better 
than words of mine. The letters from which they are taken, 
were written within the first two years of our marriage. 

Some of the sweetest stanzas he ever wrote, recur to me 
at this moment, and seem a fitting introduction to that 
glance into his domestic life, which these extracts will afford. 
I found them upon my dressing table, January 1, 1844 : 



Another wave, dear E. D. G., 
Hath broke upon our shore, 

From the dread depths of that far sea, 
Whence ages rolled before ; 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. g3 

But dearer far than all the rest, 

This last bright wave shall be, 
For, glowing on its sunny breast, 

Came a rich pearl to me ! 

''May 26, 1845. 
" Dearest E., 

" This is a beautiful Saturday afternoon ; the mud and 
water of the last three days' raining-, was swept away by the 
winds of last night, and the sun has come out in smiles to 
see the earth after her washing. The everlasting hum of 
the humble-bee that inhabits the upper part of this window 
frame, the ceaseless cries of the little chicks in the yard, the 
distant crowing of their grandfathers up street, and the occa- 
sional rattle of a passing carriage, constitute, with the 
breeze in the top of the nameless tree at the other window, 
a pleasant music, to which I have sat listening for the last 
half hour, while I thought of thee. The ducks have taken 
their position under the cart by the pond, and enjoy the 
shade and breeze, while a couple of hens, within a couple of 
yards, present an interesting picture of motherly affection in 
poverty, scratching for the supply of dependent mouths. 
% % % ^ ^ % * 

" This is a pleasant room, Ellee ; this pair of rooms is 
pleasanter still. Here is a breeze in the sultriest hour. 
Here is a prospect up the street, when you want to see your 
neighbours, and a view of your garden, flowers, and chick- 
ens, when you prefer domestic thoughts. The church at 
the next corner secures us an open and ornamental neigh- 
bour, without the trouble of a neighbour's eyes, and our gar- 
den gives us the same blessing in an opposite direction. 
Our own lot behind us, keeps the world at a distance, and 
the street does us the same kind office in front. The per- 
fume of the clover fields is pouring in at the window as I 
write, and the clear prospect over yon beautiftil hill, and the 
whole range in which it lies, is unequalled in Newark. 



Q4 MEMOIR OP 

When our house is completely finished, and the revolution of 
another half year has swept away the last remnant of bills 
and debts, and I beg-in to aspire once more to something in- 
tellectual, and we sit down together to spend another winter, 
having our pressing earthly work done — wont it be pleasant 1 
And shall we not be happy 1 

"But I have dreamed enough — and now coming back, 
must discourse to you of the doings of the past week. 

sfs * * * :f! * * 

" I was surely destined for a martyr, and to die by inches. 
Consider my complaint. At nine o'clock, I put into the 
office a neatly folded letter for you, contaming, in one corner, 
a line to my ' wee wife,' and intended to keep up the daily 
chain of communication which, for some time past, I had 
used, to heap coals of fire upon her head, and make her long 
to come home to see a husband so mindful and so loving. 
Well ! in the pleasant complacency inspired by the remem- 
brance of that good act, I thought I would go up to the post- 
office at 12 o'clock, and wait patiently for the reward which 
I expected to be sent by Providence, in the shape of a full 
and kind letter. I went — I waited, and waited. It must be 
confessed, that three several times I did so far give way to 
my impatience, as to walk to the door, and straining my eye 
down the depot road in search of the omnibus, inwardly 
exclaim — ' Oh ! why are his chariot wheels so long in 
coming !' While making my last observation, the dark top, 
and then the gray horse, burst successively into view, and I 
felt that the period of my impatience was almost ended. 
The slow moving minutes brought the lazy team nearer and 
more near, until the full sense of my proximity to my expect- 
ed treasure, was sent, with a pleasant thrill, through my 
veins, as Jonathan reined up his steed, and sprang like a 
good angel from his seat, with the mail-bag in his hand! 
Never was fountain in a weary land dearer to the sight of a 
thirsty pilgrim, than w^as that old mail-bag to me ! 

"With a prudent desire to maintain my power over my 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. gc 

owTi emotions, I resolved not to enter the narrow sanctum 
where the precious things of the budget are first revealed to 
human eyes, but to maintain my post at the store door, and 
when my name was called, with, ' a letter for you. Sir,' to 
turn very slowly, and take it, and walk down street, exter- 
nally, as if nothing had happened, but internally, as if there 
was a bullet in my heart! Well, while in my position of 
philosophic expectancy, directly, I heard the foot of the post- 
master, coming to the door of his sanctum. I forgot my 
philosophy, and walked straight up to the counter, taking 
my hand from my pocket as I went. I was greeted with, 
'No mail to day! Baltimore news gone past! Mistake!' 
' What's that V said a dozen voices, while I stood as if I had 
been shot. 'What do you say about the mail]' and the 
response followed, 'Nothing in it; the travelling P. M. has 
neglected to put the Newark budget in its bag, and it has 
gone to Philadelphia !' 

" In two minutes I was half way home, and even yet, 
6 P. M., I feel as if I had suddenly lost a dear friend." 
******* 

" This plan of making black marks, on a sheet of white 
paper, is a botheration ! Oh, what a luxury to talk and 
listen ; and yet to talk and listen is a round-about way of 
exchanging thought. There is the tongue to move, the 
thought to be split up and scattered among a dozen words, 
coming out one after another, each bearing its fragment of 
an idea. How much sweeter and richer the joy of flashing 
thoughts, whole and instantaneous, through the eye — or feel- 
ing them through the hand ! 

"Your note has a week of ordinary sunshine condensed 
within it, until it has acquired the energy of lightning to 
penetrate and enliven. Thou little angel of smiles ! Thou 
inky-winged spirit of bright eyes, whispering in silence the 
voice of a gentle heart ! I give thee thanks for thy mes- 
sage, and chauiing thee down to this rough scrap of paper, 
send thee back, to say in her ear, that in the deepest cham- 
8 



86 



MEMOIR OP 



ber of my heart, thou heard'st the voice of many thoughts, 
saying, ' I love thee 'till I am sad, for I fear that thy altar 
may be higher than God's.' 

"I would have you ever be sure that kindness is never 
thrown away upon me. I can feel it, I can remember it. I 
can treasure the memory of it as an antidote to a thousand 
careless or unintentional expressions of an ' impatient fretted 
spirit.' There is nothing in this world like kindness to 

soften and reform." 

******* 

" And now I close my letter, as I commenced it, emble- 
matic of the manner in which all of my doings, henceforth, 
shall begin and end, and as my mature life has commenced, 
and will close — with the expression of my affection for thee. 
What is human existence, but a series of thoughts like this 
letter, ending on the shores of the same eternity from which 
it started ! Happy is that existence which, like this letter, 
begins and ends in love !" 



A little daughter, a precious loan from heaven, increased 
the happiness of our fireside. But lest our hearts, absorbed 
in the pleasures of earth, should forget the uncertainty of 
life, and the greater bliss of heaven, a warning was sent, 
that conveyed to the heart of a tender brother, a wound 
never entirely healed. His elder and favourite sister, w^ho 
had married and settled in the west, was added to the num- 
ber of his family already in heaven. He was much disap- 
pointed by his inability to see her before her death; her 
disease making more rapid progress than was anticipated. 
Alluding to her in a letter written a month before he re- 
ceived the mournful intelligence, he says, " M.'s health is, I 
fear, gone forever; she took cold in the fall, and a severe 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. g-j- 

fever afterwards left her with a settled cough and proftise 
night sweats. If she grows worse I must go to see her. 
Consumption seems destined to drive our family from the 
earth. Three of its members are now, I fear, in its grasp, 
and three others it has but lately laid in the grave. M. is 
my favourite sister, as Robert was my favourite brother. I 
held his hand and watched his eye when he died, and if my 
sister is soon to follow, I must see her." In this ardent 
desire and expectation he was disappointed. A letter to his 
brother-in-law will explain the cause. 

"JwZy 14, 1844. 
"Dear Brother, 

"Your letter, containing the sad news of M.'s death, 
found me in bed, where I had been for a week, after some 
six weeks of toothache, cough, and sickness, sufficient to 
keep me in my room half the time before. The suddenness 
of the news was a greater shock to us here, than the matter 
of it. We were prepared, by your letters, to part with her 
in two or three months. We were perfectly satisfied of her 
preparation for a happier world, and this, in connexion with 
her own triumph over nature's fear, and willingness to de- 
part, had, in a great measure, reconciled us to the event in 
prospect. But I expected to see her again, to talk with her 
and bid her good bye ; and although I anticipated pain in 
that farewell, I looked forward to it also with a mixture of 
pleasure. That expectation your letter blasted in a moment, 
and I saw her snatched from me, just at a moment when my 
plans brought me nearest to her. 

" She was the gentlest, the kindest, the most amiable 
spirit in our family. Nature gave her a disposition remark- 
ably like that meek and lovely one, inspired by a deep and 
sincere piety. Such a disposition from nature, purified by 
grace and trained under affliction, made her, in my eyes, 
when I last visited P , the fairest ^d most perfect spe- 



88 



MEMOIR OF 



cimen of gentle kindness I thought I had ever seen. And 
now, that the last traces of sin are gone, and her imperfec- 
tions are all buried in the grave, I love to imagine the bliss 
of her pure spirit, as she listens to her father, mother, and 
brothers gone before, relating their history in glory, and 
pointing out to her wondering- eyes the beauties of the 
heavenly world. I never could see her in the neighbour- 
hood of Luther or Paul, or any of the sons of thunder ; but 
with the gentle John and the retiring Melancthon, she will 
walk in the shadowy vales of the River of Life. Such a 
spirit as hers, too, will delight to watch over those she left 
behind ; and it is not impossible that, for my disappointment 
in not being permitted to sit by her sick bed, I was recom- 
pensed by a visit from her, and by relief brought by her from 
heaven. 

" At the time I read your letter, I had almost given up my 
case as hopeless. My cough was incessant I had tried 
several remedies, and began to feel that my lungs would not 
stand the constant irritation much longer. Indeed, I still 
believe, that if that cough had continued another week, my 
lungs would have been too far injured to leave a cure proba- 
ble. In such a state I looked at M 's death as an event 

that did not remove her far from me, nor render it improbable 
that I should see her again before long. Consumption seems 
to be a hereditary disease in our family. It originated in 
Grand M'a's cancer — in M'a it was consumption, and it has 
appeared in different ways in all of her children.'*^ It is not 
the disease that I would choose, but I expect I am destined 
soon to die of it. Yet it matters little, so we are prepared, on 
what sort of a chariot we ride to heaven. Some, by slow 
decay, go down like Moses in quietness, and are seen no 
more — whilst others, in raging fevers, go up like Elijah, or 
the martyrs, in a chariot of fire." 

A few months after the death of this tenderly beloved 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. qq 

sister, a young-er brother, an amiable and pious youth, fol- 
lowed her to the grave. For many weary weeks his rack- 
ing cough had been heard, unceasingly, within our dwelling; 
and sleepless nights and anxious days pressed heavily upon 
the health of Mr. Graham. A tender and chastened feeling 
was, by these afflictions, awakened in his heart, of which no 
better evidence could be given than is afforded by the follow- 
ing scrap of poetry, written in the corner of a letter, and the 
note which follows it, but which was written somewhat later. 

This little corner vacant here, 

Allows me just to say, 
That though you've long been very dear, 

You're dearer every day. 

And sometimes it were wise to fear, 

Lest one in mercy given, 
Should lead the heart to worship here, 

When it should soar to heaven. 
Sometimes the heavenly Father sends, 

When earth absorbs our love, 
And homewards takes the gifts he lends, 

To guide our hearts above. 

Our tender love and mutual flame, 

May coldness never smother ; 
Nor heaven be cheated of its claim, 

To worship one another. 
And if the precious tender chain 

By death must yet be riven, 
Within its holy links again, 

May we three meet in heaven ! 

" My Dearest E., 

~ " I do not know whether I shall receive a letter by to- 
day's mail, but have determined to send you this at all 

8* 



90 MEMOIR OF 

events. I was very sorry for the contre-temps in W., that 
prevented my having the opportunity I expected to talk to you 
and bid you good bye. My ride home was more lonely than 
any I remember on that road. The ' Star of Remembrance' 
stood right before me all the way, and called up old times, 
and set my thoughts a-going at such a rate, that I forgot 
^very thing else, and listened to their music. Then Burns's 
* Thou gentle star, with beaming ray,' &c., insensibly inter- 
twined with the strain, and gave a new influence to Venus, 
until I seemed to be gazing with him upon the lonely 
memento of one loved and lost, and every recollection came 
freighted with the tenderness and power of the tomb. 

The star, ' still present to the bodily sense, 

Did vanish from my thought,' entranced I stood 

Among the memories of departed joys ; 

* Yet like some sweet beguiling melody, 

So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 

It, the meanwhile, was blending with my thought.' 

The star seemed to reflect the light of those soft eyes that 
had looked kindly on it, and to be dear as the pure images of 
it, which had lain in her heart near to, and associated with, 
the thought of me. I seemed to be sitting on your grave, 
dear E., and thanking that star for the smile it had caught 
and kept for me, when all else was gone ; and oh, how pre- 
cious seemed the thought then, that we should meet in 
heaven ! When I came to myself, I resolved to tell you 
what I had dreamed — tell you especially how precious seem- 
ed the memories that harmonized most with the thoughts of 
heaven. The reality of that dream, before long, will over- 
shadow one of us. Either you or I is destined to look upon 
the grave of the other, and bless Venus as a kind suggester 
of sweet dreams of the departed. 

" The survivor will probably read this page and think of 
the lost ! What unspeakable joy and consolation then to be 
assured of the happhiess of one whose thoughts have dwelt 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



91 



kindly on us. It seems to me I would be willing to starve 
if I could thereby render sure the salvation of each to the 
other. I have been thinking much of this to-day. Is our 
love, dearest E., a plant that will be immortal, that will 
bloom in heaven T There are plants on earth which seem to 
have sprung from seeds of the tree of life, and which evident- 
ly contain within them the promise of unfading bloom. In 
proportion as any feeling or principle of earth, is of a nature 
to flourish in an atmosphere of truth and religion, in that 
degree is it adapted to the atmosphere of heaven ; and in 
proportion to that adaptedness is its prospect of blooming 
there. Some sources of earthly joy must necessarily be 
dried up, when they will be needed no more, as faith will be 
lost in vision and hope in fruition, but love ' never faileth,' 
such love as has for its object immortal virtue. As I love 
you now, and hope to love you forever, it shall be my aim to 
cultivate ui myself something of the qualities which, when 
expanded and purified, may be worthy of returning love in 
heaven. Our relationship is forever. Though we never 
again spoke to each other, our destiny for eternity would be 
materially affected by the intimate union which has already 
subsisted between us. In records, which shall never be 
erased, our names have been written together, as equally 
concerned in a relation, which, even if interrupted for the 
rest of our existence upon earth, will send its consequences 
to the farthest shores of eternity. We have sealed each 
other with a seal, which we shall recognize in another 
world. We have affected each other's destiny for unnum- 
bered ages. 
« Dear E., 

* While eternity's wheels through long ages shall roll, 
And heaven's foundations grow old,' 

may it be seen and felt that our relation to each other has 
been, and shall ever be, a source of pure, perpetual, and ever- 
lasting joy ! 



92 



MEMOIR OP 



" But the cars have come, and my task of the present, and 
dreams of the future, must alike come to an end. 

" I have not a moment to do more than subscribe myself, 

" Your 

"Willie." 

The never forgotten desire of Mr. Graham, to become a 
minister of the goepel, reviVfed about this time, but did not 
ripen into a fixed purpose, simply because, after long and 
prayerful deliberation, he could not determine such to be the 
will of God, with regard to him. His friends unanimously 
opposed the immediate prosecution of his theological studies. 
The tendency of his family to consumption, and his own 
weak breast and lungs, convinced them of his inability to 
sustain the arduous labours of a pastor; and although his 
powers of logical analysis, and the pen of a ready writer, 
fitted him for a sermonizer, only long practice and continued 
effort, could have made him an orator. His theological 
knowledge was probably superior to that of most candidates 
for the ministry. He had read many works of devotion and 
practical divinity. He hung with delight over the writings 
of Flavel, Baxter, and other evangelical divines, who blessed 
tlie world some centuries ago. But his favourite author, his 
text book, his constant companion, was Jonathan Edwards. 
His metaphysical distinctions and disquisitions were his fa- 
vourite study. From these volumes, as an armory, he drew 
his weapons for theological controversy. He could clothe the 
cold abstractions of this speculative writer, with the fervid 
language his own enthusiastic temperament dictated, and 
wandering with him in the abstruse mazes of metaphysics, 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 93 

draw reasons therefrom to support the theories and opinions 
which they held in common. 

A favourite employment of his leisure hours, was the com- 
position of sermons. He possessed, in this respect, a produc- 
tive facility that made all effort trivial. I do not think he 
spent a Sabbath, during- our acquaintance, without compos- 
ing, at least the skeleton of a sermon, but it was only during 
the last two years of his life, that he attempted to write them 
out. Although the first purpose of his life was postponed, it 
was never entirely relinquished. Urged at one time, by a 
near and dear friend, to give up entirely this purpose, and to 
turn his attention in another direction, he thus wrote — 

" When I was a child, two years old, I was ' preaching.' 
My father selected me first, from among his children, for an 
education, with the hope that I would be a minister. When 
I joined the church, he rejoiced in the increased probability 
that his hope would be realized. On his dying bed, five 
months before I graduated, and when he was on the very 
shores of the eternal world, he called me to him, and gave 
me his dying charge. ' If you preach the gospel, my dear 
son,' &LC. &c. He did not command me, but he took it for 
granted. All my Christian friends, the aged minister who 
baptized me, and my father's friends in the ministry, look 
upon me as pledged. I should no more dare to say that I 
would not preach, than I should dare to pray to God to blot 
my name from his book. If God makes it my plain duty in 
his providence to preach, I must preach, ' though earth and 
hell oppose.' This is what I say deliberately. I do ten 
thousand wrong things daily, and some very great sins am I 
chargeable with, and if I do not preach when Providence 
calls me, that will be a great sin, and yet that sin would not, 
in my view, compare with the enormity of the rebellion of 
deliberately recording, on paper, a vow, that whatever God's 



94 



MEMOIR OF 



will might be, I would not preach ! I would rather die than 
do it! 

"Yet do not misunderstand me. I do not say I wUl 
preach. Five years ago I expected to have been preaching 
long ere this, but Providence has most clearly shut me up to 
a different course thus far. Some of my friends tell me I am 
designed for a professor. My habits of thought and study 
lean more toward something else than preaching. I can 
only say, that now I do not think it my duty to preach ; that 
if my circumstances hereafter do not offer me a plainer path 
than they have heretofore, I shall not preach, but if God 
plainly says, ' Go !' I must obey !" 

The ardour, the decision, the tender conscientiousness dis- 
played in this extract, are strongly characteristic of Mr. 
Graham's manner and character. He continued, during liis 
whole life, to look forward to the removal of obstacles to his 
engaging in the noble work of the ministry. But such was 
not the purpose of an all-wise Providence. 

However varied his employments, or ardent his desires for 
another field of labour, Mr. Graham never ceased to remem- 
ber his high responsibilities as a teacher. His school mainly 
engrossed his time, his cares, his thoughts. His intellectual 
tastes were never allowed to interfere with the important 
charge he had voluntarily assumed, and from every thing 
inconsistent with the faithful performance of his duties, he 
resolutely divorced himself But in the spring of 1845, he 
began to weary of the ceaseless toil, and to pine for rest. 
He longed for the period to arrive, when, free from pecuni- 
ary trouble and vexation, in a quiet study, he should be able 
to extract something valuable from opportunities heretofore 
comparatively neglected. He began to think of resigning his 



W[LLIAM S, GRAHAM. qq 

position as Principal of Newark Academy. This soon be- 
came a fixed purpose. To do this, with advantage to himself, 
and justice to the Board of Trustees, it seemed necessary that 
for a time we should reside in the academy building. Mr. 
Graham was required to give a notice of six months to the 
Board before leaving, and his brother, who had relieved him 
of his charge, was not willing to remain any longer in so res- 
ponsible a position. In accordance, therefore, with his best 
judgment, we rented the pleasant dwelling upon which he 
had expended so much labour, time and thought, and which 
now, in complete order, seemed just ready to repay all his toil, 
and removed to the academy. It was a sad step for our hap- 
pmess, and a source of mutual regret. I was totally unfitted, 
both by education and habit, for the care of so large an esta- 
blishment, and my spirits depressed by domestic afliiction, 
seriously affected my health. My sister, who had left us but 
a few months before a bride, full of health and hope, returned 
home to pine away and die. An accident received in riding 
confined me to my room for weeks. Our domestic economy, 
heretofore smooth and unruffled as a summer sea, was totally 
disarranged, and upon Mr. Graham fell a weight of care, 
responsibility, and pecuniary vexation, he was ill able to 
bear. So far as the teaching was concerned, every thing 
went on as usual, but in the boarding department there were 
troubles innumerable. The suffering and pecuniary loss fell, 
however, alone upon the principal, and on the part of parents 
there was little or no complaint. The following extracts, 
from papers written by Mr. Graham for the Board of Trus- 
tees, will explain fully his reasons for leaving, and the state 
of the academy at the time — 



96 



MEMOIR OF 



" After mature consideration, I have come to the resolution 
to resign the office I now hold, as Principal of the academy. 
This resolution has not been adopted in consequence of dis- 
satisfaction, either with the success of the academy, or with 
the government of the trustees. It affords me pleasure, to be 
able to say, that the academy is not only in a more prosperous 
condition than when it came into my hands, but that it is 
now larger, and in a more flourishing state, than in any pre- 
vious session since I came. The number of students who 
have already entered the academy this term, is 64, being at 
least four or five more than I have ever before been able to 
report at this period of the term. Of these 64 students, 
52 are boarders from a distance, and 20 are new students. 
With the government of the Board of Trustees, moreover, I 
have every reason to be content, and have received, both for 
myself and for the academy, every indulgence which I could 
reasonably ask or desire. 

" My strongest reasons for this step are of a different sort 
The various and perplexing duties of the office, including the 
receipt and expenditure of a large sum of money annually — 
the superintendence of the instruction and government of 
60 pupils — and a very extensive correspondence — all in addi- 
tion to the full complement of actual teaching, which usually 
belongs to a single teacher, are sufficient to occupy the time 
and energy of any individual, and preclude all opportunity 
for self-improvement. The character of our course of study 
being restricted by our connexion with the college, to a 
region below the Freshman class, does not afford scope for 
progress on the part of the teacher. For these, and similar 
reasons, I have decided," &.C., &c. 

Mr. Graham's resignation was accepted by the trustees 
with expressions of unfeigned regret, at the loss the academy 
would sustain, and their full satisfaction with the manner in 
which their trust had been fulfilled. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 9-7 

The critical state of Mr. Graham's health rendered his 
release from his arduous duties a matter of congratulation to 
all of his friends. For himself, he gladly welcomed his 
deliverance from bondage. His pale cheek, dimmed eye, 
and languid manner, filled his friends with alarm. He spent 
the fall of 1845 immersed in the business naturally arising 
from his long connexion with the academy ; but that he 
found, in his busiest hours, time for intellectual pursuits, the 
following letter, to a highly esteemed friend, will testify. 

" Newark, October 15, 1845. 
"My Dear Sir, 

* * * * " Since the arrival of your letter, I 
have been compelled, in a great degree, to give up Plato 
and Greek, and come back to serving tables. I finished 
' Gorgias,' got ' Contra Atheos,' read a part of the notes, &c., 
and then made out sixty bills, went through our examina- 
tion, dismissed the school, whitewashed, scrubbed, plastered, 
moved and fixed, put the furniture of the academy into a 
saleable shape, had an appraisement, sold out, and then rode 
down to Maryland, until the everlasting din should die in my 
ears, and have just got back to Plato again. In the mean- 
time, however, you must not consider me exactly as idle. I 
took advantage of the fragments of two broken weeks to run 
through Coleridge and Locke, and make an article of two 
hours for the Conclave, on the philosophy of the former, as 
contrasted with that of the latter. Some day, when you can 
do nothing better, I should like to have your pencil marks on 
it. It is only notes, short, just the heads, which I threaten 
you with ! 

" I have read an interesting book, ' Chaucer Modernized,' 
a London edition, bought for the college library. The Intro- 
duction on Chaucer's rhythm, and on Rhythm in general, 
has interested me, especially as the very first expression of 

9 



99 MEMOIR OP 

what I have long imperfectly dreamed, that I ever met with. 
Since reading it, my old dreams have begun to come into 
shape, and have created a desire to pursue the subject 
farther. I suspect there are books on Greek metres, that 
would naturally treat of the philosophy of rhythm, which 
would be just what I want. 

"The roughness (apparent) in Milton, I have long sus- 
pected to be 'dark inwoven harmonies,' hard to hear — the 
play of variations in which, more than in the central air, 
rhythm lives. If this be the case, is there any book in the 
library, or within my reach, where the idea is applied and 
developed at large i * * * * 

" Very sincerely yours, 

"Wm. S. Graham." 



In the month of December, Mr. Graham accepted an 
agency for Delaware College, and spent the winter in 
Washington and elsewhere, endeavouring to induce the 
churches to endow scholarships, or otherwise redeem the 
pledges they had given for the support of this Institution. 
Incidental circumstances, over which he had no control, 
rendered his efforts in this cause almost nugatory; and, as 
he had accepted the agency rather in compliance with the 
wishes of the Faculty, than his own, he gladly resigned it 
in March, and returned to Newark. He had not been san- 
gume of success, and was not, therefore, disappointed ; his 
health was much improved by change of air and scene, but 
he was still suffering somewhat from over exertion during 
the past summer. 

Mr. Graham had been fondly attached to his little daugh- 
ter. His inexperience in the ways and wiles of baby-hood, 
gave the charm of novelty to her infantile attractions. He 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 99 

lavished upon her constant attention, and hung- over her little 
couch, as if enforced by the new love springing up in his 
heart to unusual acts of tenderness. She was a remarkably 
beautiful child, but her face wore a subdued and pensive 
thoughtfulness unsuited to her age. This was especially 
attractive to him. In the middle of the summer, when his 
troubles at the academy were at their height, she was 
attacked with sickness. The delicate blossom, whose un- 
folding he had watched with such deep interest, faded away 
before his eyes, and after lingering for a few weeks, was 
transplanted to an eternal home. His heart, long habituated 
to the inroads of death among the treasures of his love, seem- 
ed to have found a new capacity for grief, but siill he 

" bowed to the chastener silently, 
And calmly let her go." 

Evident to all was the triumph of the resignation and sub- 
mission of the Christian, over the deep anguish of the father. 
To a friend to whom he was speaking of this trial, he said, 
" I was silent, because God did it !" In the following ex- 
tracts from letters, written during the winter, will be seen 
that spirit of sweet subjection to the will of his Father in 
heaven, which characterized him under every trial, and that 
heavenly spirit which is tender and loving, even when com- 
pelled to rebuke. The last one may be considered by those 
who have never known affliction, as tedious and sermon-like. 
Let such pass it by. Its re-perusal has fallen upon my heart 
like a voice from the spirit-land, and in the hope that it may 
carry healing to other hearts, I send it forth. 



100 MEMOIR OF 

" I have been thinking to-day much of little Ella. I have 
seen two or three beautiful little children since I left home, 
just the age she w^ould now have been. Yet I feel that 
there is no real cause for sorrow. God has done nothing for 
which we should not see reason to thank him forever, if we 
would extract from it all the good he intended us by it. 
Little Ella is a bright dream, endearing the past, lighting up 
a tract in memory that otherwise were profitless, and making 
it a region of soft and sweet thought for all time to come. 
The two last years are embalmed in her memory, and are 
dearer to me than any other two of my life. She was the 
visible smile of heaven, which still seems to rest upon and 
bless those happy days. Her birth, her life, her death, the 
joys and sorrows, smiles and tears of her little history mingle 
in memory, and create a twilight, tender and sad, to soften 
and purify and refine the heart. But she is not only the 
' Star of Remembrance' in the evening of the past — she is 
the bright morning-star of the future. Her beatified spirit, 
at the gate of heaven, will be the first to welcome us there, 
if, indeed, we are so happy as to reach that blessed abode. 

* Oh ! when the mother meets on high 

The babe she lost in infancy ; 

Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 

The day of wo, the watchful night, 
For all her sorrows, all her tears, 

An over-payment of delight 1' 

And in the meantime to have a guardian spirit to watch us 
at night, so pure, so dear, and to feel a common interest in 
us both ! 

"Contrast what we possess in Ella, with the growing, 
sickening, sorrowmg, suffermg child of earth, developing 
only to lose its innocency and endanger its salvation, and 
filling the heart with fear and sadness. It is well — it is 
well! And now good night — remember me at 6 o'clock 
every evening, and from that to 7, think only of me. I will 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. jQj 

imagine you sitting in the dining-room, and I will be there. 
' Take the vacant seat beside thee,' and put thy gentle hand 
in mine. See if you cannot recognize my presence. Pray 
for me then, and I will pray for you, and may the God of 
Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob keep you, 
and bring you safe home to heaven at last. This is my 
prayer now for you, as it was my father's last prayer for me. 

" Your 

"Willie." 

" Sunday, 2 o'clock, P. M. 
"My Dearest E., 

" I sent you a letter on Friday, and another on the Satur- 
day of last week, both of which I hope you have received. 
Your long and sad letter of Friday I received yesterday, and 
I shall devote this sheet to answering it. I don't want you to 
be alarmed by the expectation of cold philosophy or heartless 
reason in this sheet. I should not have undertaken to write 
to-day, if I did not mean to say something more important 
and more appropriate to the day and my subject, than logic 
or speculation, however ingenious. But after all, the truth 
is truth, and is now working every where, and will work out 
our destiny forever. Sorrow for the dead — no human being, 
or even animal, but must feel. It is so instinctive and so 
natural, that it is not even commanded in the Bible. 
Though not commanded, it is endorsed by the highest exam- 
ple — 'Jesus wept' God sends not his afflictions to stones, 
or to us, without intending to soften us. And in order that 
the purposes for which affliction is sent, may be accomplished 
in us, it is necessary that we should most deeply feel when 
those we love are taken away. But mere feeling is not the 
end of affliction. The mere sense of bereavement and lone- 
liness, in itself, is no more desired by God, than the pain of 
a broken limb. Bereavement is intended to accomplish an 
end in us, and if we sit in our bereavement, and allow our 
thoughts to be absorbed with it, to the exclusion of the les- 
9* 



202 MEMOIR OP 

sons God designed to teach, or if we allow our hearts to 
brood over our own sorrows, until we are dissatisfied with 
God's doings, and, instead of being prepared to bless him, 
that so little cause of grief (compared with our deserts) 
exists, are more ready to find fault with him ; then, assured- 
ly, the end his mercy had in view, is not gamed, and we 
give him the alternative to secure it by another, deeper and 
sorer blow, or what would be far worse for us, leave us 
unprofited and hardened (even in our tears) by his merciful 
affliction. 

" As sure, dear E., as the Bible is true, God has desig-ned 
to teach us, lately, some such lessons as these — First, not to 
set our affections on earthly objects. He has taken away 
our dearest earthly idols, and left our hearts bleeding. He 
meant something. He designed to show us that He, him- 
self, was the only worthy and unfleeting object of such love, 
and to cause us, while earthly joys fled, to cling to him, to 
feel the necessity of his love, and to consecrate our unoccu- 
pied hearts to him forever. Now, if we will not listen to 
this call, but cling closer than ever to the memory, when we 
cannot to the form, of the loved ones, and in the cherished 
turbulence of grief, disregard the lesson God has set before 
us, may he not justly give us up — or strike deeper 1 

" God has said, 'You thought too little of me, and too much 
of your own plans and hopes and fears,' and he has taken 
those we loved to himself, to win our thoughts to follow. 
If we only, by this affliction, have our thoughts more wedded 
to selfish grief, and our own sorrows, do we not miss the 
blessing 1 

"God has said, 'Your sins deserve the rod,' and he has 
laid it on. Have we thought of our sins more since this 
affliction, than formerly] Have we seen them to be the 
cause of our suffering 1 If not, we have not yet learned the 
lesson. He has said, 'There is nothing true but heaven. 
Accomplishments, beauty, hope, love, health, life — are all 
shadows, and must fade; place your affections on things 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 103 

eternal.' Have we done it 1 When he has torn them loose 
from earth, have we sought to fasten them on heaven 1 

"He has said, 'Recognize the merciful affliction of a 
Father, charge the pain to your own sin, and renounce it; 
credit the kind design to a Father's love. Feel how small 
the pain, compared with your desert, and thank the good- 
ness of heaven that the infliction was no worse.' Dearest, 
have we not forgotten such facts as these 7 Our little Ella 
had no long and terrible convulsions — her death was peace — 
her salvation was secured beforehand. She was saved from 
the evil to come. Was there not more mercy than severity, 
and infinitely more than we have since thanked God for, or 
adequately felt 1 

"He has said, 'Make your salvation sure, for your own 
sake. Time is short. Reason may desert you, and the 
opportunity of prayer may be forever taken away. Heaven 
is at stake, and all the unending joys of eternity. For the 
sake of those who remain behind ! It is worth more than a 
world beside, to a desolated heart, to be assured of the salva- 
tion of those we have loved and lost. And for the sake of 
those who have gone before — for the sake of meeting a 
mother, a sister, a child, in heaven — for the sake of even 
more blissful society there, the society of the general assem- 
bly and church of the first born, the innumerable company 
of angels, and of Jesus, the mediator of the New Covenant. 

" W^hat I have written, dear E., seems to me but half to 
express what I mean, and what I think God has meant to 
teach us. Are we nearer to heaven now than before we 
were afflicted! Do we love more the Redeemer who has 
saved our Ella, and who has rendered the evil results of our 
own sins, as this affliction for instance, capable of being 
turned to our everlasting salvation'? I have lost much of 
the blessing, probably, by not letting the affliction appear 
enough in the light of a chastisement, designed to pain and 
punish ; may not you have overlooked the meaning and the 
lesson too much, in the absorption of the paini You say 



104 



MEMOIR OP 



* you never had so little desire to live.' If we were strug- 
gling for our life against sin, until, like Paul, we were 
' wretched ;' if we were worn out in the service of Christ, 
and longed for the reward he has promised ; if we were as- 
sured of our salvation, and from strong love to the Redeemer, 
longed to be absent from the body, that we might be with 
him; then, indeed, all the ends of life accomplished, we 
might have no desire to live. But if God has given us 
duties to do, and they are not yet done ; if he has offered us 
heaven, and we have not made it sure ; if he has died for us, 
and we have done nothing for him ; if, in such circumstances, 
we should throw away the blessings he offers, and throw up 
the work he has given us to do, because we are tired of his 
gifts, or because, after long blessing, he reproves us for our 
sins, are we not ungrateful and rebellious ] If God will but 
save us two sinners at last, I, for one, will agree that he tor- 
ture me here as long as he please. I would pray that he 
would send every affliction he sees I need, and fit me, by 
suffering, for glory. ' For if we suffer with him, we shall 
also be glorified together — for I reckon that the sufferings of 
this present life are not worthy to be compared with the 
glory which shall be revealed in us.' " 

******* 

The propriety of a long rest, afler the arduous duties of the 
last five years, was now strongly urged upon Mr. Graham, 
and tempting inducements held out of the leisure for study, 
for which he had so long pined. There were many out- 
standing accounts of the academy still to be attended to; and 
the plain style of our living reduced the income necessary 
for our mutual support, to a sum but little exceeding that 
arising from the small capital his industry had already accu- 
mulated. Needing repose, sighing for opportunities for intel- 
lectual gratification, as he really did, he yet hesitated to 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. JQS 

make up his mind to the two years of inaction proposed. 
Looking forward to the hour when actual sickness would 
come, and, as he feared, (judging by the experience of those 
of his family who had gone before,) to months and years, 
when he would be incapacitated from doing any thing for 
his own support, he felt it his duty to provide for the dark 
hour, ere its arrival. A dread of dependence, of debt, and 
the thousand horrors attending both, were strong influences 
to urge him to continued labour. Money, for its own sake, 
was nothing to him, (and even of the comforts it can pur- 
chase, he was singularly independent;) but to surround 
those whom he loved with luxury, and to be enabled to 
gratify their wishes, he would cheerfully have toiled to the 
death. 

Easily influenced, however, by the wishes of those in 
whose judgment he confided, he gave up a scheme which 
he had entertained of opening a private school in Alexan- 
dria, Va., and havmg once made up his mind, that it was 
not his duty to work, with the greatest alacrity and delight, 
turned to his books. A small room, attached to the main 
building of his boarding-house, became his study. He fur- 
nished it after his own fashion, with more regard to comfort 
than appearance, named it o itepo^ xocjjitoj, and delighted 
to expatiate to his friends, in an exaggerated style, upon its 
various beauties and defects. 

He commenced immediately the study of German, a 
tempting bait he had long desired to seize. He gave it his 
whole attention. He devoted to it from ten to twelve hours 
a day, allowing himself only to be interrupted by a hurried 
dinner. As a natural consequence of the structure of both 



106 MEMOIR OP 

his mind and body, in less than three weeks he had mastered 
all the difficulties of the language, and could read it with 
great facility, but he had lost his appetite, was thin, pale, 
and very much debilitated. He entered into every thing 
that interested him with so much ardour, was always so 
thoroughly in earnest, and bestowed upon it such intense 
intellectual labor, that it was impossible for human nature 
to bear long such a strain upon its powers, and his physical 
strength always gave way first. In one of his letters, he 
thus alludes to himself, " My nature is such, that I do what 
I am interested in, with all my might, and when the inte- 
rest is broken in any way, my activity begins correspon- 
dently to flag. I have long since discovered the prominent 
element in my character, to be a disposition to ' intermittent 
fever,' although prudence and principle have been slightly 
developed to prevent such a tendency from interfering se- 
riously with the comfort of my neighbours." Interested as 
I was in his progress in German, I could not but foresee the 
danger t(5 his health from such close application, and per- 
suaded him, much against his will, to pause awhile, and 
attend the General Assembly, then in session in Philadel- 
phia. This diverted his mind and restored his health. 

Soon after his return, he translated the Epigram of 
Lessing, an essay of some length, and abounding in poetic 
illustrations. These he arranged into English verse readily 
and rapidly. He translated German poetry with fidelity and 
beauty. His first reading of it concluded, he generally com- 
menced rendering it into verse. I think he did this with all 
the poetry he found time to read. The Fisherman'' s Song, 
Honour to Woman, and The Magician^s Apprentice, are 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. ^qj 

among- his best finished pieces. It is but just to Mr. Gra- 
ham to mention, what I know to be a fact, that he had 
translated all of these, and many other small poems, before 
he had ever seen an English version. He was indeed 
ignorant that they had ever been translated, his knowledge 
of light literature being very limited, and the periodicals in 
in which such productions generally appear, never having 
fallen in his way. 

With Klein Roland, a pretty poem of Uhland's, he was 
delighted. His first notice of it was, one morning, directly 
after breakfast, and as I sat by his side, he translated verse 
after verse, reading it for my approval. The dinner bell 
rang while we were thus engaged, and the poem, which is 
quite long, was left unfinished. It was a great pleasure to 
be in the room with him when he was engaged in any intel- 
lectual employment. He was not easily disturbed; to use 
his own expression, "he had no nerves." The clang of a 
door, or the entrance of a visitor, never awoke a peevish or 
ill-natured remark. Possessed of great powers of abstrac- 
tion and concentration, he could return to his task as if he 
had met with no interruption. He loved to share with 
others whatever thought for the time engrossed his atten- 
tion, and to talk out a thing before he wrote it. 

There was a wonderful combination of the practical and 
the ideal in his character. His mechanical genius and 
obliging temper kept him in constant demand for those 
trifling services, it is in the power of gentlemen to bestow, 
and the wont of ladies to require ; while the accuracy of his 
judgment, and his capabilities for a business life, made him 
the adviser and assistant of many of his friends. Combined 



jQQ MEMOIR OP 

with these qualities, the spirit of the poet and the philoso- 
pher was always visible. He viewed all subjects and 
objects with the eye of a metaphysician. The principles of 
things occupied his thoughts. Ideas were, in his estimation, 
realities, their development the shadows of life. In the 
midst of the liveliest society, while subject to constant 
interruptions from the suggestions of others, with an unper- 
plexed mind, he could examine into the mysteries of an 
analysis or the fallacies of an argument, and grasping all 
its points with a tenacious and persevering hold, would 
arrive at conclusions which a common mind would have 
required solitude and time to educe. He could bear cen- 
sure and criticism better than any human being I ever 
knew. His patience and sweetness of temper on such occa- 
sions, never failed him. He was thankful for advice or hints 
about trifling matters. He had but little regard for external 
appearances, and although a lover of the results of order and 
system, often lamented what he called " the contrariness" of 
his nature in these respects. But these faults, if they 
deserve to be called such, were not prominent enough to 
inconvenience others, and only rendered him a more de- 
lightful companion. He was so readily persuaded, so easily 
pleased, so willing to bestow the most precious moments of 
his time, or the richest stores of his mind, upon those whom 
he loved, that affection for him became instinctive, and 
astonishment, at the brilliant characteristics of his mind, 
was lost in admiration of the nobler qualities of his heart. 

Mr. Graham had just begun to fix his mind upon some 
definite subject for intellectual labour, when his attention 
was diverted by a new project. Although as pleasantly 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. jQg 

situated as it was possible to be, while boarding, our hearts 
had often turned with sad yearnings towards our own quiet 
fireside, and we had sighed for the shade of our own vine 
and fig-tree. During the winter, in anticipation of soon 
leaving Newark, Mr. Graham had disposed of his house. 
My local attachments were, however, very strong ; and our 
vicinity to the college furnished facilities for study, which, 
except under very favourable circumstances, we could not 
find elsewhere. Although many changes had taken place 
in the society of Newark, since it was first introduced to the 
reader, there was still much to attract and render a resi- 
dence there desirable. Accordingly, after some delibera- 
tion, Mr. Graham decided to build a house in Newark, and 
expected, by obtaining four pupils, to be under his sole care, 
to add enough to his income to enable us to live in comfort. 

The selection of a lot, the plan of a house which should 
combine beauty, utility, and economy, occupied him during 
the month of July. We were very happy in this anticipa- 
tion. Mr. Graham was full of his arrangements. Every 
walk or ride led us past the spot upon which the house was 
to be built ; the garden, the greenhouse, but above all, the 
study, were already possessed in his hopeful and lively imagi- 
nation. Had these anticipations been realized, these designs 
carried into effect, how different might have been the result ! 
A gifted and glorious spirit might still have survived to bless 
the world by its example and labours, and a sunny fireside 
and happy hearts remamed unblighted by desolation and 
anguish. 

But God seeth not as man seeth, and the ways of his pro- 
vidence are mscrutable. All the arrangements for our house 
10 



1 -iQ MEMOIR OF 

were completed, the plan fixed, the carpenter engaged, 
when " a change came o'er the spirit of our dream." From 
a distance, from the capital of Pennsylvania, came an invita- 
tion to new labours. It was brought by a friend, who used 
every argument to induce its acceptance. The prospect it 
afforded for usefulness and happiness was inviting. There 
were obstacles to conquer — a powerful motive for acceptance 
to his energetic spirit. It seemed that a year of enterprise 
and effort would be productive both of pleasure and profit. 
Our house, when built, would leave us somewhat in debt. 
And this was Mr. Graham's especial aversion. There was 
some misunderstanding about his real object in building in 
Newark, and some ill-natured remarks had been made upon 
his setting up a rival school to the academy. This was very 
foreign from his intention, which was distinctly, as above 
stated ; but the report troubled him a little, as he would not 
condescend to contradict it, and knew that he could only live 
it down. In view of all these things, he came on to Harris- 
burg, and being much pleased with his reception there, 
returned to Newark, decided upon removing. This was 
Saturday. Our furniture had been packed away all sum- 
mer. Early the next week Mr. Graham packed and unpack- 
ed, exerting great industry and ingenuity, and on the follow- 
ing Thursday we left Newark, little deeming that we should 
never revisit it again together. 

Pennsylvania being Mr. Graham's native state, he had 
always cherished for her an honourable pride and affection. 
It was, therefore, with peculiar pleasure that he contem- 
plated a residence in her capital. The sphere of usefulness 
liere opened for him was wide, and offered every inducement 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. JU 

to exertion. But there were many difficulties in the way of 
success, and an abundant share of faith and confidence was 
necessary at the outset. " Nil desperandum" was, however, 
the motto of Mr. Graham in every thing- that he strove for, 
whether trifling- or important. There was an amount of 
enthusiasm in his character, displayed as teacher, student or 
companion, upon undertaking- anything^ which carried him 
forward inevitably to success. The toil to win the race was 
as productive of happiness to him, as the glory of the attain- 
ment. It is not too much to say, that he always accom- 
plished whatever, with undivided energies, he undertook; 
and never more successfully than at Harrisburg. The 
academy, which had been in existence for many years, had 
gradually languished, and six months before his arrival had 
been closed for lack of students to support it. Its declension 
was owing principally to the establishment in the town of the 
Military Academy of Capt. Partridge, an institution which, 
by the novelty of its arrangements, and the excellence of its 
teachers, had, up to this time, received almost universal 
patronage. But the novelty had worn off; and many parents 
desiring rather to hasten the period when men shall " learn 
war no more," than to retard it by nursing a military spirit 
in the bosoms of their sons, and influenced by recollections 
of their own early training in the old academy, united their 
eflforts to open it anew under more favourable auspices. At 
the recommendation of their President, the Board of Trustees 
invited Mr. Graham to become the Principal, and he opened 
his school early in September. 

The academy building, a fine old stone house, is situated 
on the banks of the Susquehanna. It furnished for Mr. 



212 MEMOIR OF 

Graham and his family a delightful home, and he took great 
interest in improving and beautifying it. The river was a 
ceaseless source of admiration and enjoyment to him. He 
seemed never to weary of its beauties. The fortunate preser- 
vation of several letters written during this fall, will enable 
tlie reader to judge more accurately of his situation and feel- 
ings, than any information that the pen of another can afford. 
The first one is addressed to the ladies of the Conclave in 
Newark, and was written impromptu, and solely with a view 
to their amusement. 

^^ Harrisburg, Sept., 1846. 
" Our study, at the window. 
"To THE Mrs. Conclave, 

" Ubi gentium sumus ? Where in the nation are we 1 
said Tully, lost in the brilliant depths of his own argument ; 
and ubi geiitium sumus ? say we, as we look out on this Loch 
Lomond and its verdant isles. 

"The apparition of so much earthly beauty and order, 
afler the inextricable confusion and tumult of the last two 
weeks, is like nothing so much as the sudden elysium of 
perfect peace, the moment after the foundations of your 
earthly tabernacle have been racked and torn, in the earth- 
quake agonies of a parting grinder. In the bewilderment of 
the transition, one is doubtful whether he has preserved his 
identity entire, or whether, like the Irishman in his infancy, 
he has not been 'changed.' To keep track of the past, 
under such circumstances, and to be able to look back along 
an unbroken line of consciousness, were about as easy as it 
would have been for Noah, when he stepped upon Ararat, to 
have presented you a chart of his stormy voyage. 

" But here is beauty and order at last. The horrible dis- 
cord of locomotives and bandboxes, has gone by like a thun- 
der storm, and here is a clear sky and a tranquil scene. It 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



113 



is a vision as peaceful as returning- consciousness after a 
night-mare dream; and the faculty of thought, which has 
been confounded into silence, begins to revive. For the 
first time for three weeks, I seem to have a responsible ex- 
istence, and mangled thoughts begin to struggle into their 
individuality, and to move into obedience to a will. 

"As the blossom precedes the fruit, as the flower sur- 
mounts as well as adorns the branches, as the glittering 
spray crowns the wave, as the rainbow smiles on the outer 
surface of the cloud, as the delicate, the ethereal and the 
beautiful, always and every where take their place above the 
massive, the heavy and the strong ; so in the settling chaos 
of a mind confounded with rail-roads and bedsteads, cars and 
carpets; where Greek rhythm has been discolated by the 
shriek of the locomotive, and books have been expelled to 
make room for boxes ; in such a chaos, while the foundations 
of the mental world are still working in darkness and disorder 
below, while Horace and ^Eschylus and Coleridge are still 
struggling under a mass of china and tables and stoves and 
matting, and the entire Deutsche Sprache is compressed and 
dissipated in lamentable distraction ; what element should 
first be extricated, and take its place above the confusion, 
(like the spotless light and ethereal air of the primitive crea- 
tion,) but the fair memory of Fraiienzimmer of the Con- 
clave 1 

"When Adam first opened his eyes upon the glories of 
Paradise, it was long before he learned to separate the fair 
visions and soft melodies, which lurked in all the chambers 
of a soul yet moving with the impulses of its celestial source, 
from the new impressions of beauty through the senses. His 
own imaginings and reminiscences, combining with the fairy 
pictures and sounds of Eden, were woven into one perfect 
dream of beauty, in which no part seemed possessed of more 
or less reality than another. It was a delight worthy of 
being transmitted, and which has been repeated by as many 
of his children as have known the luxury of lingering in the 
10* 



J 14 MEMOIR OF 

twilight of a pleasant dream, while slowly returning con- 
sciousness vainly strove to determine what was real and 
what was ideal. In this border-land of soul and sense, the 
inner form of matter only appears, and the soul anticipates 
her prerogative of a spiritual body. In such a region we 
should love to stay, and enjoy the double sweetness of the 
past and the present, in one mingled draught of memory and 
sense. 

" But we begin to wake — the Loch Lomond of the Susque- 
hanna spreads out its bright expanse with a new distinctness, 
and the Frauenzimmer of the Conclave retire among the 
beautiful shadows of the ideal. But ere they retu-e, let them 
peep through our eyes upon this beautiful scene, with which 
their memory was just now blended, like the moonlight that 
spiritualizes and makes it the companion of the mind at 
night. 

"A large and rather antique mansion of jointed gray stone, 
stands within 80 feet of a majestic river. In front is a foot- 
walk of brick, beyond which nature's ever green carpet is 
unbroken to the edge of the bank, which overhangs the wave 
some 30 feet. A row of venerable poplars stands on the 
verge of the descent, and in the morning sun cast their 
tremulous shadows far over the water. Without farther 
introduction, you may mount the portico, enter the mansion 
and ascend with me to ' our' study wmdow. Here is a pros- 
pect to electrify a poet ! The broad, the musical, the many- 
islanded Susquehanna rolls down its sparkling tide to the 
ocean. The real breadth of the river here is only a mile, 
but the view in every direction is so broken by islands, and 
so diversified by the variety of magnificent perspectives, 
opening between and stretching beyond, over glancing 
waters and gray rocks, that the eye often fails to detect the 
opposite shore, and it requires no aid of fancy to imagine 
yourself on the bank of a peaceful far-stretching lake, whose 
haunted grottoes and shadowy retreats may still be the home 
of nymphs and genii. Beyond, and in the distance, the soft 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



115 



blue of the AUeghanies meets the horizon and bounds the 
scene. In some directions the scenery is as untamed as 
nature herself; and you can scarcely resist the impression, 
that the Red men are still roving in the depths of those 
forests, and the deer and the buffalo still feeding- on their 
ancient pastures. In others, the marks of civilization are 
visible — the farm-house, the fenced field, the village or the 
bridge. Had you been dropped down here from the clouds, 
ignorant of your locality, you would never have imagined, 
from all you see from this window, that you were in the 
vicinity of a large town. You might think of Switzerland 
or Italy, or fancy yourself on an excursion with Wordsworth 
among the romance of his lake scenery, or with Walter 
Scott m some fairy spot of his beloved Highlands. But in 
iron-making, coal-digging Pennsylvania, among Dutch faces 
and sour-kraut, and right in the midst of a busy, noisy town ! 
Such a thought would be the antipodes of your loosest guess, 
the very extremest remove from your widest conception of 
the possible ! Yet it is even so. In our rear, the town 
comes up to our garden fence, and on either side it is equally 
neighbourly. We are here m the very synthesis of nature 
and art ! the very tangential point of city and country ! the 
indifference of scenery on land and water ! The advantages 
of such a location are a compound trinity — a multeity in 
unity. 

"From our proximity to town, we have its society, its 
markets, its dry walks, its convenient supplies of all sorts, 
its clock ringing the hour in your ear, and holdmg up its 
pointers before your eyes, without the trouble of winding it 
up or taking it out of your pocket; its hydrants gushing 
without the labour of pumping ; its library of English and 
German ; its amusements ; its ice and ice creams ; its milk- 
man and penny-post; its bi-daily mails; its facilities for 
intercourse with other places ; its materials for a Conclave ; 
its selection of friends, and its deliverance from the neces- 
sity of knowing your neighbour, which the country superadds 



116 



MEMOIR OP 



to the natural necessity of being in some place. Our proxim- 
ity to the country gives us seclusion, quiet, coolness, green- 
ness, freedom from dust, cabs, crowds, and odours, the use 
of a large garden, broad green yard, fruit-trees, and sky-room. 
On the bank of the river we have the breezes from the 
water, the everlasting dancing motion, the Eolian music of a 
tliousand little eddies, the magnificence of the storm, the 
sparkling beauty of the sunshine, the gliding boats, romantic 
islands, evenings on the water, with the song of the gondolier 
for accompaniment, glorious sunsets reflected from the wave, 
and the witchery of the moonlight, beautifying, etherializing, 
and perpetuating the scene. 

" But the river — the river — is the charm of the whole, and 
must not be dismissed w^ith a passing notice. It deserves 
a higher honour than to be associated in terms of equality 
with the town and country, in a general description, and 
must have a page to itself. 

" Water, in all circumstances, is of a nobler nature than 
the dull earth. It is purer, more active, more ethereal, and 
more nearly allied to spirit. Its native disposition is more 
celestial ; it takes its place above the rock and the clod, and 
more easily mounts and mingles with the pure splendours of 
heaven. It is less grovelmg and less gross, less selfish, less 
full of itself and opens its bosom to the fair forms of the 
forest and the sky. It is more reflective, and more sugges- 
tive of reflection. Its associations are more dignified. It 
enters into partnership with the sun and the clouds, the 
moon and the stars, to accomplish its purposes, and paints its 
images on the heavens, or in its own equally pure bosom. If 
it admits a mountain or an oak to more than a passing 
acquaintance, it first softens and spiritualizes their grosser 
natures, and embraces rather the fair image of its ow^n cre- 
ation, than the ruder originals. In fact, with the true 
' esemplastic power^ of genius, it merely takes its hints and 
materials from the gross world of sense, and produces its 
forms of beauty and light by a transforming, glorifying 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. II7 

power of its own. In its cosmetic waves the coarsest fea- 
tures and the meanest objects become delicate, and the 
noblest receive a new glory. 

* Seeks not the moon and glorious sun 

In the crystal deeps to lave ] 
Hath not his face new glory won, 

Fresh mounting from the wave 1 
And charm thee not the heavens, that sleep 

In wave-transfigured blue 1 
And charm thee not thine eyes, that peep 

From out the eternal dew'?' 

Water is of a noble nature. How simple, clear, and unso- 
phisticated, and yet how mighty ! Though it has at its 
command all the colours of the spectrum, all the forms of 
space, and all the energies of nature, how unpretending and 
how plain ! Although it knows how to clothe heaven with 
unaccustomed glory, and can spread out a sunset in its 
waves, which the west never equalled, its ordinary dress is 
plainness even to invisibility. Although ordinarily silent, 
or speakmg in w^hispers of the softest melody, it knows how 
to wake the echoes of the world with its awful roar ; and the 
gentle playmate of a child, when roused, can dash navies to 
atoms, and ' thunder-strike the walls of rock-built cities.' 

" Water is a lover and friend of freedom. It received the 
boon from its creator in Eden, and unlike servile man, has 
retained it unimpaired. How it plays around the world in 
its untamed liberty ! In brooks and rivers it goes dancing 
down the mountains, and through the broad plains. In seas 
and oceans it refuses to be still, and tosses its spray, and rolls 
its tides, in unwearied enjoyment of unrestrained motion. 
It mounts the skies and roams through the heavens — it 
descends through the rocks and investigates the structure of 
the earth — it takes possession of the middle air, and rides on 
the wings of the whirlwind — it sports with the frost, and 
continues even in solidity to play ' such fantastic tricks,' as 



118 



MEMOIR OP 



solids never elsewhere played. Every where it is the same 
free mocker of restraint. Catch it if you will, confine it and 
rouse its rag-e by letting loose its ancient enemy, the fire, 
and it will burst the solid world rather than submit. But 
the crowning virtue of water is its moral character. With 
a modesty that increases in proportion as it maintains the 
purity of its nature, it hides itself from view, even while it is 
beautifying- the dull rocks that look into its waves. It 
knows how to combine softness and pliancy, and an insinu- 
ating address with perseverance and unwearied pursuit of 
its appointed course. Although cramped and obstructed at 
every turn by the sharp corners and impudent perversities of 
hard-hearted rocks, it gently adapts its efforts to circum- 
stances, and gradually wears down the asperities of the 
most iron opposition. Where it can gain admission but by 
single drops, it not only works itself a passage, but in the 
meantime, by the power of unconquerable gentleness, it 
transforms its ancient and hardened enemy into a brilliant 
resemblance to its own purity. Again, tortured to an intol- 
erable excess by the incursion of boiling lava from some 
subterranean crater, in awful fury it takes to itself its more 
spiritual form, and with the energy of an angry god, uproots 
mountains, and dashes their ancient foundations to the sky. 

" But ere this, the current of this meditation must have 
suggested to the reader, that the Susquehanna is a river of 
water. It comes down from the mountains of Pennsylvania 
and New York, by a hundred different channels, and from a 
hundred different springs, and in its various branches rejoices 
in such euphonious appellations as the Catawissa, the Juniata, 
the Tioga, the Chenango, the Unadilla, the Chemung, and 
others equally musical, received in its early baptism from its 
Indian god-fathers. The giant stream, which sometimes rolls 
past our shore a depth of some fifty feet, with a stormy 
breadth of more than a mile, was born in heaven and nursed 
in the caverns of the Alleghanies and the Catskill, until its 
infant energies learned to struggle to the light. Then, totter- 



WILLTAM S. GRAHAM. 



119 



ing' down the defiles of its lofty home, with many a tumble 
and dreadful fall, it makes its way through hoary forests, 
where the dew still ' drinks its fill at eve,' through valleys 
yet unvisited by civilized man, filled with caves and haunted 
glens. It has many a quiet nook, where it rests in its course, 
decked with diamonds and precious stones, whose hiding 
places it will never -reveal. It has its sleeping places in 
mines of gold and silver, to which greedy man shall never 
be admitted. Through beds of musty coal and iron ore it 
has travelled for days together, and caught no pollution from 
the unnatural contact. When, at last, its youthful energies 
have been matured in obscurity, it comes fortli like a hero, 
bursting through every obstruction, and rejoicing in its 
vigorous freedom. Henceforward its progress is that of an 
all-conquering king. The mountains open, the valleys re- 
tire, and the deep-rooted forest gives way before it. Flowers 
and verdure adorn its course, while venerable oaks and 
youthful willows unite to form a leafy canopy over its way. 
The cities of men take their places on its banks, and stretch 
their bridges, like triumphal arches, over its waves. Every 
where, as it advances, the shores bend into graceful curves 
to welcome its approach, and gradually retire from its grow- 
ing majesty. At length, having fulfilled its mission, and 
from an origin of littleness and feebleness, through a proba- 
tion of difficulty and constant struggling, having developed 
its imperfect nature, it attains, in the ocean, that highest 
consummation of a created thing — the perfect realization of 
its own idea ; and hiding its individuality in the completeness 
of its own attainment, it gives up existence, in order to 
obtain the perfection of its being ! 

" But the river Susquehanna has some special and peculiar 
merits, particularly in that part of his course which we over- 
look from our study window, which must not be omitted. 

" It is pre-eminently a musical river. Unlike many of his 
race, who prefer to keep their meditations in their own deep 
bosoms, he pours out his soul in one perpetual anthem by day 



][20 MEMOIR OP 

and by night. He has melody in his heart, and he loves to 
send it abroad. Over ten thousand little waterfalls, his 
waves go singing as they glide, while the winds that sport 
on his bosom, join the chorus and bear the music to the 
shore. He evidently possesses great skill in his art, for 
though his billows are of every size, and perform their parts 
in all sorts of time, there is perfect harmony in the swelling 
whole. He knows, moreover, how to adapt his notes to the 
occasion, and to catch the strain when Boreas or Zephyr 
have chosen to give the key-note. At such times he can 
send forth the solemn thunders of innumerable organs, or 
play an accompaniment to the wildest frolics of his aerial 
playmates. In the evening he delights to sing a soft 
requiem to the departing sun, or welcome pale Cynthia to 
her nightly round. But his noblest part remains to be told. 
Right under our window he has planted a rocky ledge in his 
channel, and stretches it out to the middle of his stream, of 
such a varying height and size, and so scientifically adapted 
to the variations of his own currents, that he is prepared, at 
all seasons, and in every state of the weather, to give con- 
certs with a full orchestra to whoever may choose to listen. 
On this rocky instrument he is even now, and has been ever 
since I enjoyed his performances, literally 'pouring forth 
such a torrent of music,' as would make the fingers of De 
Meyer ache, in the despair of imitation. This song of the 
old river is our welcome in the morning, and our lullaby at 
night. It chimes in harmoniously with the thoughts of study 
and the dreams of slumber. It is a bass accompaniment to 
the piano — a sort of pleasant ground to the entire picture of 
our lives. 

"Another excellent characteristic of the Susquehanna is 
his love of islands. Look up his channel ! See that long 
slender needle lying lengthwise in the middle of the stream, 
covered only with a green carpet, and so sharp at the extre- 
mities, that you can almost hear the shriek of the waves as 
they split on its point. Just above is another, a beautifiil 



WILLIAiM S. GRAHAM. 



121 



circular mass of dense green willows, so thick and dark, that 
the eye can reach nothing but the graceful fringes that 
sweep the shore. Romance evidently has a favourite retreat 
behind those closely drawn curtains. 

" Almost opposite the last, and near the farther shore, is 
another smaller one, perhaps 200 feet in diameter, entirely 
covered with a grove, under whose branches you may see 
pleasant arbours and shady walks. But my favourite is 
farther up the stream, and covered with a luxurious moun- 
tain of various foliage, through which you may easily see 
here and there avenues opening into shady recesses, where 
the eye cannot follow, but where the fancy longs to explore 
the hidden caves. Beyond still are others: one oval mass, 
with a flounce of green around the skirt, j^nd a great bald 
pate, keeps you in doubt whether he is a genuine island, or 
a jutting promontory, protruding into the stream. The chief 
charm in these islands is the perspectives which open be- 
tween, and vary with every change in the position of the 
observer, and in the air of romantic mystery which they 
throw around the river, as he retires beyond the shadowy 
borders, tempting the imagination to follow. A walk of 50 
feet on this part of the bank of the river, or even the ex- 
change of one chamber for another, will make a magical 
transformation in the entire scene, corresponding to the 
changed relative position of the islands. Like the painted 
figures of the kaleidoscope, every change in their position 
presents new pictures of beauty, until the eye wearies, rather 
with the endless novelty, than with the uniformity of the 
scene. The old river has thus infused into the solid figures 
of his scenery, something of the life and variety of his own 
element ; and made dull earth and stones appropriate orna- 
ments of his own ever new charms. 

" But the chief excellence in the character of our river in 
my eyes, is his love of ancient simplicity, and his dislike of 
modern improvements. With genuine old-fashioned hatred 
of new-fangled notions, he long ago resolved that no steam- 

11 



122 



MEMOIR OF 



boat of Fulton's, and no propeller of Ericson's should ever 
harass his waters, and no dusty wharves should disfigure his 
high green banks. To make the matter sure, to all genera- 
tions, he paved his broad channel with tremendous rocks, 
and here and there arranged his musical instruments in such 
exact order, as would make the most horrible discord at the 
touch of the under-works of a steam-driven vessel. If men 
must have their bales and boxes transported, he will lend 
some of his superfluous waves to fill a canal ; but within his 
own chosen channel, no craft may come, unless, indeed, in 
the fullness of his exuberant good nature in the spring, he 
rolls down some rafts from his native mountains, for the sake 
of dashing a few of them on the rocks by the way. In fact, 
it is with some reluctance that he will tolerate so much as a 
bridge ; and he has been known to rise in a night and send 
the incumbrance to the ocean. 

" Hence it is, that our front street, instead of presenting a 
scene of warehouses and pavements, of dust and noise, of 
drays and wharves, sailors, barrels, boxes, boats, ships and 
coal-piles, and every thing else that proclaims man a digging, 
eating, and bargaining animal, is a peaceful, green-carpeted 
and shady promenade, with the residences of the elite of the 
town on one side, and the magnificent old river on the other. 

"But when shall we stop] The Frauenzimmer of the 
Conclave are long ago asleep, and the voice of the reader is 
mingling in their dreams like the murmurs of the Susque- 
hanna. The last vestige of female patience has long ago 
expired, and the extremest limits of tolerable imposition have 
been overstepped. 

' It is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream.' 

" May the nightly visions of the Frauenzimmer always 
be inspired by scenes as peaceftil, and their thoughts by day 
ever dwell in regions as fair, as those over which they have 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



123 



just wandered in fancy ; and may both the dreams of slmiiber 
and their soberer daylight moods, ere long- be tmged and 
beautified by personal communion with the scenery of the 
Susquehanna. When Christmas week shall bring round the 
holidays, let the learned President, ever various and new as 
the perspective scenery of the many-islanded river, and his 
lady, as peaceful as its evening music ; let the learned Pro- 
fessor of Natural Laws, brilliant and profound as a sunset in 
its waters, with his geographical Lady of the Lake, bewitch- 
ing as a nymph in its holiest grot ; let the metaphysical Pro- 
fessor of ' crystallized thought,' far-reaching and original as 
a wave from its mountain spring, with his poetical river-bred 
lady, romantic and quiet as moonbeams on the billow; let 
the Polyglott Professor of rhethorical beauties, and the ever 
bubbling and abounding fountain of the Tutor of languages, 
with her who is yet a lone-island in the busy stream ; let 
these, one and all, come forth like the stars in one night, and 
add celestial charms to this scene of earthly loveliness, and 
we will hold a Conclave on the banks of the Susquehanna!" 

A few weeks later than the date of this letter, and the 
spoiler, like the " dweller on the threshold," followed us to 
our new and beautiful home. Domestic affliction came to 
shadow our budding hopes and happy fancies. An infant, 
for whom Mr. Graham manifested unusual affection, was 
called suddenly away; and the companion of his daily life 
was prostrated by sickness. It was feared that consumption 
was her disease, and that its inroads would be rapid. Mr. 
Graham had learned, by such bitter experience, the fatal 
power of this malady, and the impotence of human skill 
against its attacks, that he yielded at once to despondency, 
and hope alive in all others seemed to go out entirely in his 
T-^dom. He displayed, at this time, more than ever before, 



224 MEMOIR OF 

the deep affection which filled his heart. His sympathy 
with pain, his anxious attention to every wish, his passionate 
words of love and regret, witnessed by near relatives who 
thought they knew him best, surprised them as demonstra- 
tions of feeling, whose depths they had never seen sounded 
before. But he was mercifully spared the agony of this 
most severe of all bereavements. The desolation which 
succeeds the actual visitation of death was not his portion. 
Over the wide waste of affliction was extended the olive 
branch of hope and joy. The heart his tenderness had 
aroused to new life, revived to prove its gratitude, the lan- 
guid eye smiled its thanks, and the hue of health contrasted 
painfully with his own pale cheek. 

From the series of letters before mentioned, I extract two 
peculiarly expressive of the blended tenderness, philosophy, 
and playfulness, which, as exhibited in his daily life and 
conduct, endeared him so much to the hearts of his friends. 

" My Dear Mrs. A., 

"Your last letter lingered, and finally came with a 
message of sickness ; I did not know, when I read it, that in 
these respects it prefigured its answer. 

" Soon after the arrival of that letter, Mrs. G. was taken 
sick, but the arrival of a little daughter turned the sorrow 
into joy. The little thing had dark eyes and hair, a fine 
forehead and bright countenance, and was full of life and 
apparent health. From the moment of its birth it inherited 
the love of the lost Ella, and seemed ten times more dear in 
the atmosphere of loving, widowed thoughts which little Ella 
had lefl, waiting for an object. On the first day of its 
appearance, it was ornamented, too, with the name of the 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



125 



lost Mary, and altogether seemed like a resurrection of 
buried beauty and joy. 

"But our dream was short. After thirty-six hours of 
seemingly perfect health, it became drowsy and slept a day 
and night without interruption. The next twenty-four hours 
were full of pain, and the last of its life. The night before 
its death it spent in uneasy restless motion upon the arm of 
its mother, with its large black eyes wide open and fixed 
upon her face; and those appealing, upturned eyes, which 
were perfectly visible in the darkened room, seemed to com- 
plain, through the long slow hours, with such reality of suf- 
fering and gentle helplessness, as were torture to look upon. 
After its death it had the same round face, the same appear- 
ance of health, the same unutterable beauty of innocence 
and helplessness, that endeared it before. With its little 
hands folded on its breast, and its lamblike quietness of 
feature, it looked like something which it was more than 
mean for death to touch. We had it enclosed in a tin case, 
with glass over its face, and the whole, enclosed in a larger 
box, laid in the grave-yard here, until we go to Newark, 
when we design taking it to our vault, where little Ella is 
now alone, that the two little sisters may sleep together. 

"There is its history — its whole earthly annals. It 
seemed but to glance on our day, like a beautiful star, as it 
passed on to far regions in the heavens. 

" 'Twas a note of music, wafted 

From the angelic choirs on high — 
'Twas a rose-leaf, earthward straying 

From the gardens of the sky. 
Like a sunbeam on the fountain, 

Bright and transient was its stay ; 
Like the mist upon the mountain, 

Early it has passed away." 

" I hope, ere this, you have entirely recovered your usual 
health. When I read your letter over the first time, I could 
11* 



]^26 MEMOIR OF 

have written a book in reply, but it is all gone. When I 
am wound up to a certain tune, like a musical box, I can do 
nothing else, until that is played out. Little Mary's visit 
(for such it seems) has filled me with thoughts that leave 
no room for any thing alse. 

"I have just formed a German class in my school. It 
contains, as yet, but two boys, and I hope at least to keep 
ahead of them ! I have put them into the grammar and 
made a resolution to keep them there, until they have mas- 
tered it, and to hear their recitations without the book. I 
mounted the treadmill yesterday, and feel a good deal 
learned in the German already, in the certainty of the anti- 
cipation which this arrangement affords. It is like sitting 
down in a rail-car bound for Luther's fatherland, without 
stopping for fuel or water ; it is the next thing to being there 
and talking like a native." 



" My Dear Mrs. , 

" Your letter came just at the right time. When I was 
about as high as Heman, (pronounce the vowels of that pro- 
per name right,) my mother sent me to the porch to call 
some workmen from the harvest field, a good shouting dis- 
tance off, to dinner. When I had fixed myself in the right 
position, I opened my mouth and made an effort, to which I 
expected to see all the leaves of the trees, in its route, rustle 
their admiration as it passed. But what was my astonish- 
ment at the perfect silence, that continued as composed as if 
nothing had happened ! Was it my ears or my voice that 
had failed me 1 Was it only the idea of sound, the unem- 
bodied essence of noise, that had gone out of me, whose 
ethereal intangibility refused to report itself to the sense ; or 
was it a true and perfectly rounded note, whose harmonious 
being so blended with the symphony of the universe, as to 
lose its own individuality and distinct perceptibility? Or 
was it like 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. J27 

* the music of the spheres — 
So loud, it deafens mortal ears, 
As sage philosophers have taught, 
And that's the cause we hear it not V 



It was in just such a quandary that I have waited for the 
last two or three weeks, and listened for an echo to my last 
letter. I was just concluding my speculations about the 
cause of the continued silence, and was making- up my mind 
to do as I did in the case above described, resolve the mys- 
tery by a second ' effort,' when your echo came, and assured 
me that a true sound had gone forth. You perceive the 
infliction you have escaped, and will not run a similar risk 
by a like delay in future. And by the way, if there was any 
thing in that last letter of mine, or should be in any future 
letter, which don't reach you, as I believe was the case with 
my first effort at calling harvesters ; take a hint from my first 
page, and learn to be charitable enough not hastily to infer 
that it was never sent. It isn't every body can see the 
meaning on the electric wires, though you can, and that 
remark is not meant so much for you, as for any rogue who 
may hereafter steal a sight of this correspondence, and have 
vanity enough to suppose he could gather the meaning of it. 
There is sometimes more concealed, intentionally, under a 
sentence, than a rapid reader sees, and there is always more 
incorporated in a sentence, than the writer distinctly de- 
signed. It is this latter species of accompaniment to the 
principal strain of thought, which nature plays, and by 
which, as she makes harmony or discord, she indicates the 
genuine or spurious character of the w^hole. 

" You think ' you don't get it out !" Why, the man who 
plays with his fingers on the magnetic keys at Washington, 
don't seem to get much sense out of them there. It is at the 
other pole of the magnetized wire that the meaning is looked 
for. Now, I claim the honour of being the other pole of 
yourself. It is all 'out' as soon as it meets my eye. Your 



128 



MEMOIR OP 



little note came like a ray through a vacuum — unrefracted 
light — and, therefore, darkness, until it fell into my atmo- 
sphere, where its bright thoughts expanded and glowed into 
warmth and beauty. And that reminds me, that I am a 
capital reflecting substance just now, solid and material as 
any rock, and capable of absorbing no spark of light. Mr. 

speaks of books and Brownson ! and you talk of a 

visit from , and the memory of books, and peo- 
ple that read them, comes back like a dream ! 

" Know ye not that we are sojourning in the land of cab- 
bage and sour-kraut ? I have read but one book through 
since we came, and that was an Oxford one — Sewell on 
Plato! I have been employed in teaching geography and 
penmanship, and building a furnace and putting up stoves ! 
Higher reading than Webster's speech, I have not attempted 
for a month. Schlegel's Lectures from the State library, 
Goethe, Lessing, and Burger, and several other of the best 
German poets, await my first leisure moments. 

" There is E. D. G , she has written a letter, and feels 

uneasy until it is off. When Mr. 's arrived, she sat down 

and answered it on the spot, and is afraid, after two days' 
keeping, that it will be stale. Dr. Johnson said of a book, 
that ' it had not strength enough to keep it from spoiling,' 
and then added, by way of interpretation in the Johnsonese, 
' it had not vitality sufficient to preserve it from putrefac- 
tion.' I make no application, but you may possibly infer 
that I am not in the best humour at this sudden dislocation 
of our chat. Let your next letter fix the day for your arrival 
in Harrisburg. 

"Very truly, 

"Wm. S. Graham." 

The winter passed away with rapid steps. Every hour 
was occupied. A small class of ladies, formed for mutual 
improvement in German, employed Mr. Graham from two to 
three evenings in the week. One or two more were given 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 229 

to visiting, and the remainder to the study of Greek, or the 
g-eneral business of his school. In this latter he met with 
unlooked for success. His patrons were gratified by the 
warm interest he manifested in the improvement of their 
sons, and over his scholars themselves his influence was 
unlimited. The wildest spirit quailed beneath the just 
rebuke his eye could speak, and the most indolent were 
spurred to diligence by the promptings of a faithful teacher. 
His school, which consisted for the first month, of fi:om 
three to five scholars, increased so rapidly, that a new 
arrangement, with regard to it, became necessary. As a 
prominent instance of an energy and perseverance that 
overcame obstacles, which to others appeared insurmounta- 
ble, I may be permitted to notice this more particularly 
than would otherwise be advisable. The school had here- 
tofore been held in the academy building; and an outer 
entrance, and the order and neatness which it was easy to 
enforce with so small a number of scholars, prevented any 
inconvenience from this arrangement, to his family. As it 
increased, these rooms became too small, and one or two 
complaints of noise around the house in play-hours being 
made to Mr. Graham, he set himself to work at once to 
remedy the evil. His plan was soon formed ; but when it 
was announced to me, I opened my eyes in astonishment at 
his boldness, and remarked, with a smile, "that its only 
fault lay in the impossibility of its attainment." The plan 
was this — to induce the trustees of the academy to put up for 
him, in a lot adjoining, a building which should contain a 

school-room feet by , two or three recitation rooms 

and a gymnasium, and should cost $1000. He had decided 



1 30 MEMOIR OF 

upon the size, and estimated the expense of every window, 
door, beam, and rafter in the house, and this was the result. 
Now, with the exception of the house in which we lived, 
and the garden and lot adjoining, the Board of Trustees, as 
such, owned not a dollar's worth of property ; how then was 
this new idea to be realized 1 Mr. Graham was a compara- 
tive stranger to them, and although he had hitherto been 
treated with the most flattering kindness and courtesy, how 
could he ask them to afford him more 1 These things were 
set before him, with some other obstacles not necessary to 
mention here. " I will accomplish it," was his reply, " and 
my new house shall be ready for your inspection on the 1st 
of April." A skeptical smile at his sanguine hopes, and an 
allusion to his having chosen an unfortunate day for their 
fulfilment, and the conversation ended. This was early in 
the winter, and the 1st of April really witnessed a building 
exactly upon the plan proposed, finished, and ready for occu- 
pation. Whatever opposition was shown at first to the 
measure by any member of the Board of Trustees, his elo- 
quence, and their confidence in his abilities, had soon over- 
come. The money to build was borrowed, and the rent of 
$100 assumed by Mr. Graham, secured the payment of the 
interest, and the creation of a sinking fund towards the liqui- 
dation of the principal. I will not attempt to describe his 
daily interest in its gradual erection, nor with what child- 
like delight he superintended the removal of desks and 
benches, and assisted in the putting up of maps and chemi- 
cal apparatus. He exulted over my "faint heart," called 
the new one his house and the other mine, and playfully 
threatened me with what he would do, in case I attempted 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 23^ 

to interfere or " fix" it. Those were happy days for us both. 
Alas ! with their hopes and fears, their noble purposes and 
innocent pursuits, they have passed away forever ! 

The people of Harrisburg had welcomed Mr. Graham into 
their society with all that hospitality and kindness for which 
they are remarkable. The flattering recommendations for 
talent which had preceded his arrival among them, would 
alone have given him entrance into their most exclusive 
circles; but the purity and simplicity of his character and 
manners, insensibly inspired all who came in contact with 
him, with a deep feeling of interest and respect. The high 
moral and metaphysical tone of his conversation, and the 
vein of playful compliment that enlivened it, enabled him to 
hold the attention of one conversing with him in delighted 
enchainment. While the understanding was instructed, the 
fancy was delighted by his varied, beautiful, and original 
illustrations. The charms of poetry and philosophy were 
thus happily blended, and the treasures of a well-stored 
mind were freely dispensed for those around. The frail 
delicacy of his form and face, the gentle earnestness of his 
manner, the serenity of soul that beamed in every feature, 
added charms to his conversational powers which it was 
impossible to resist. Being desirous of extending the sphere 
of his influence in Harrisburg, and by becoming known, 
increase his prospects of success, he visited more frequently 
than was his wont, and made many new acquaintances. 

Here also his pleasant social qualities enkindled friend- 
ships that expired but with his life, and that still linger over 
his tomb with sincere and mournful regret. 

The spring opened early, and brought with it new plans 



132 MEMOIR OF 

and pleasures. The blue waves of the Susquehanna, so 
lately released from their icy bondage, bounded along with 
music and gladness to mingle with the ocean ; the fairy isles 
so beautifully throned upon its sparkling bosom, were robed 
in the rich luxuriance of spring, and the song of birds floated 
out on the balmy air like a strain of melody. Amid the 
most romantic scenery, supplied with all the comforts of life, 
surrounded by friends vieing with each other to show us 
kindness, we enjoyed together a happiness as perfect as sad 
memories would allow. It is true, that Mr. Graham deeply 
felt the sacrifice he was making of his passionate desire for 
literary leisure, but he generously and cheerfully gave up 
all to present duty, and having once decided upon a course, 
his was not a nature to repine or retract. The sunshine of 
his intellect was never dimmed by those inequalities of tem- 
per, which have overshadowed the domestic happiness of too 
many of earth's gifted ones. A more hopeful and buoyant 
spirit never existed. It threw about him the freshness of 
childhood, and gave to his society an unfailing charm. He 
was greatly dependent upon kind words and encouragement 
for a vigorous happy heart, and coldness or distrust wounded 
him too deeply for expression. He had grown very weary 
of the many changes we had made, within the last few 
years, and longed to find somewhere a permanent home. 
When he came to Harrisburg, it had been with the inten- 
tion of remaining but a very short time ; but he was so much 
delighted with the beauty of our situation, that he was 
always forming plans to reconcile his desire of release from 
the drudgery of teaching, with remaining where we were. 
Attached to the house in which we resided, was a very 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. ^33 

large garden. It had been neglected until it was literally 
a waste. The new school-house completed, Mr. Graham's 
active spirit turned hitherward, and soon the "wilderness 
blossomed as the rose." Delighted with his partiality for so 
healthful a recreation, his friends encouraged it by every 
means in their power. His ambition to raise fine vegeta- 
bles and fruit was excited, and for a month or two every 
leisure moment was devoted to laying out walks and beds, 
planting seed and puttmg up trellis. Nothing but this 
course could have sustained him in his arduous duties. He 
had been teaching for seven months, from six to seven 
hours a day, (for his noons were generally spent in the 
school-room,) with only one week's vacation. One can easi- 
ly imagine how small a portion of his time was thus afforded 
for the cultivation of his mind, or the fruits of his genius. 
His prospects of success daily improving, authorized the em- 
ployment of one or two assistants, and hope seemed to war- 
rant the belief, that soon, with every thing around him so 
arranged as to minister to his domestic comforts, he could 
reduce his personal teaching to a labour of three hours a 
day, and once more take up his books and pen under greater 
advantages than he had ever yet known. No presentiment 
of evil crossed his mind. Trusting in the Providence that 
had so kindly protected him thus far, while others were 
falling, he almost seemed to forget the frail tenure by which 
he held his life. So far as pain or outward symptom is proof 
of disease, his health was perfect. His heart appeared to 
cling to life and its enjoyments more closely than I had ever 
known it. From some letters, written during this spring, I 
extract two, as indicative of his happy and contented spirit.^^ 
12 



134 MEMOIR OF 

" April 27, 1847. 
" Dear E., 

"I have just come in from the garden. The flower 
beds are all sodded. The peas are hoed, and look very well. 
Two beds of beets are sleeping- next to your strawberry beds ; 
the radishes are flourishing and thickening, the lettuce is 
springing at a tremendous rate, and the entire garden has 
just had a good watering. 

"Our examination occupied all yesterday, and went off" 
very well. The Governor gave us his presence all day. 
To-day we have holiday, to-morrow we commence another 
quarter. We are getting along capitally, as far as this life 
is concerned, and the processes of eating, drinking, and 
sleeping. Notwithstanding the unusual leisure of the last 
twenty-four hours, the result of the holiday aforesaid, I have 
done nothing this whole day but work in the garden, look 
over the newspapers, and write two or three letters. * * * * 
Is not this a great letter'? Beets and lettuce, dollars and 
stock ! How we have become rooted and grounded in the 
earth since we corresponded once before ! But so it is — and 
I am happier than I was then, with a more substantial and 
peaceful happiness. There is not in my letters the same 
neatness of penmanship, nor the same roundness in the sen- 
tences, nor point in the thoughts — but look over the five 
letters I have sent you, and see if there is not in every page 
a contented heart, and the expression of a perfect confi- 
dence, which is too happy and too confident, to be rhetorical 
or studied. They say that poetry and imagination flourish 
most in the twilight and shadowy regions of half-civilization, 
before the mind has been disciplined into too much exact- 
ness of science, and before language has assumed a philoso- 
phical stiffness and precision. So in the twilight of our 
dawning love, the yet indistinctness of the feelings of each 
to the other, and the misty light of a but partial acquaint- 
ance, surrounded us with shadows of doubtful shapes, and 
gave occasion to dreams and explanations and imaginary dif- 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. j 35 

Acuities, which have all disappeared in the full blaze of our 
meridian happiness. Then we saw through a veil darkly, 
but now face to face — and then we spoke through letters 
doubtingly, but now lip to lip. Although in our intercourse 
perhaps less romance remains, there is something far better. 
There is the increasing firmness and certainty of established 
love. I could write better poetry in that shadowy region, 
but I can live happier in the latter. The pressure of anxiety 
and excitements of startling doubts would crush poetry out, 
like Moore's fragrance from the wounded part, but I should 
not like to be stretched up to such a degree of tension all the 
while — a fiddle string, for the sake of the music I might 
make. Nor unless you like my verses more than me, would 
you keep me there. You may get a glimpse of what I 
meant, by saying, the other night, that I could not stand the 
conditions to which Jacob submitted. Indeed, I begin to 
think, poetry is like gold, which, to be good, must come 
from something which has undergone the torture of the cru- 
cible. And I also think happiness is worth more than gold 
or poetry either, though perhaps both may add something to 
the smiles of happiness herself 

" But I fear you will begin to tire of such endless epistles. 
I know of nothing out of our regular routine to mention. 
May your path be light, and your sleep be peace, and " He 
who guardeth Israel," protect you ever. 

" Willie." 

" Harrisburg, May 2, 1847. 
" Sunday evening. 
"DearE,, 

" We have just finished tea, and while the rest are on 
the porch enjoying the calm and delicious softness of a lovely 
summer evening, I sit down to write to you. It is a sweet 
and peaceful hour. I have not felt so free fi-om vexatious 
cares for a long time. Providence has helped us almost out 
of debt, and given us the prospect of soon being entirely 



J 3 (3 MEMOIR OF 

through. We are free from a quarrelmg community, and 
are surrounded by people with whom we can live upon terms 
of kindness and courtesy. I feel that we can make a plea- 
sant home here. And if we love one another, and have 
God's blessing, can we not be happy 1 The silence of this 
location is charming. A Sunday evening is as much of a 
Sabbath here, as if we were surrounded wath the green 
fields and silent woods of a retired country residence. In 
fact, what can we see from our front door, but 

* Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, 

All dressed in living green ; 
So to the Jews old Canaan stood. 

While Jordan rolled between !' 

I do not know of an enemy, or one who entertains a thought 
of enmity towards us in this place, and see not if we are 
prudent how we can make enemies. I think Providence 
has been kinder to us than to nine-tenths of our friends who 
move in the same sphere, and my only fear is that we shall 
strike our roots too deeply here, to be able to go when 
called, without a terrible struggle. I love to feel, as I do to- 
night, some of the sublime relations of our being, and to 
recognize our relationship to immortality and invisible reali- 
ties. It is an occasion of exquisite joy to mount some imagi- 
nary height of the universe, and thence look down upon 
earth as an atom ; the starry worlds as but pebbles on the 
shore of the infinite creation ; upon time as a moment, upon 
life as a dream, and the wide world of spiritual being as just 
before us. From such a height, it is a joy to look upon our 
destined course far stretching into eternity, and like the pro- 
phet on Pisgah's top, view the glory of our fiiture inheri- 
tance. 

"Henceforward our fortunes, in time or eternity, are 
linked together. Our friendship is to be everlasting, and its 
basis must be such as the changes or dissolution of earth will 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 



137 



fail to shake. A few short years, and our earthly enjoy- 
ments are over. We must never forget that our love is to 
be immortal ; that though destined to an apparent suspension 
during the short winter of the grave, a bright and eternal 
spring awaits it beyond. We must make it permanent by 
building it upon the only foundation that will stand — the 
truth. In fact, what else may we hope to stand upon indi- 
vidually or together 1 The truth has been truth from eter- 
nity, and will to eternity remam unchanged. It is the 
foundation of the throne of Jehovah himself, and if we place 
ourselves upon it for safety, we are secure so long as that 
throne shall stand. We must love each other for those 
qualities mainly, which shall live forever, if that love is to 
live forever. We must cherish in ourselves, and in each 
other, those characteristics which we shall retain forever, 
and which will command love when seen in the light of 
eternity. 

" I was going to write you a sermon to-night on the doc- 
trine of mutual recognition in a future world. I will do it 
some other time. It is a beautiful and precious doctrine, 
which I do not wish to touch until my head is clearer than 
just now. % * * 

" It is getting so dark that I cannot see to write, and it is 
almost time to start for church. Where are you to-night ? 
' Are you thinking of me at the twilight hour ]' 

" I shall expect to meet you at the cars on Tuesday. 
"Good bye, 

"Wm. S. Graham." 

Mr. Graham found but little time, during the summer, for 
intellectual exertion. He was not fond of early rising, and 
it was with a daily effort that he gained a couple of hours 
before breakfast, for the study of Greek. He would hardly 
become absorbed in it, when the breakfast bell would ring, 
and the hour for school arrive. He attempted nothing at 
12* 



23Q MEMOIR OF 

noon, and after tea, worn with confinement and fatigue, a 
walk was absolutely necessary. It was with many a sigh, 
that, during the warm summer nights, he resigned his light- 
ed study for the moonlight and gay friends upon the porch. 
And often, on retiring, he would exclaim, "I am doing 
nothing — I shall never be anything but a boy !" Although 
to a preparation for a professorship of Greek, he devoted 
all of his leisure, an incident again awakened his longing 
desire for the realization of what had always been the high- 
est ambition of his life. His younger brother, who had suc- 
ceeded him at New London, and assisted him at Newark, 
was licensed during this summer, and was engaged in 
preaching with ease to himself and benefit to his hearers. 
In speaking of this, I asked Mr. Graham, " Do you not feel 
envious 1" He replied instantly, " No, indeed ! I never yet 
felt envious of any human being, and I know that I shall be 
a minister in God's own time. I was born to be a minister, 
and I feel assured that I shall not die with my mission un- 
fulfilled." He was mistaken — heaven had other plans and 
purposes with regard to him, but tliis incident is only one 
of many that might be given to evince his patient, hopeful 
spirit. 

He had been too short a time in Harrisburg, and too much 
engaged, during that period, to take any prominent part in 
the church of which he was a member. But he was con- 
stant in his attendance on its services, and his voice was 
often heard leading the prayers of its people in their weekly 
meetings. Upon one of these occasions, the pastor of the 
church being absent, Mr. Graham was urged to conduct the 
services. The application was entirely unexpected, but he 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. J39 

arose, and, opening the Bible, explained a portion of it to 
his attentive hearers. Several persons, comparative strang- 
ers to us both, afterwards spoke to me of the pleasure and 
profit they derived from his discourse, and warmly praised 
the eloquence and clearness of his style, the dignified but 
earnest simplicity of his manner. I was not present, and 
upon his return home, his beaming face attracted my atten- 
tion. I questioned him, and soon discovered the cause. "I 
have tried to do some good," was his concluding remark, 
"even if I have lowered myself in the opinion of the people." 
He was always fond of hearing sermons, and although a 
severe critic whenever he perceived a disposition to display, 
he could find in the poorest preacher something to admire. 
His memory was wonderful. No one ever spent a Sabbath 
in his company, who had not occasion to notice the extraor- 
dinary development of this faculty. He could narrate the 
sermon he had just heard, from the text to the application, 
almost word for word. And then, perhaps, remarking, " but 
I would have analyzed that text in this manner," he would 
talk off another sermon, concise yet complete in all its 
parts. From many lips this would have been wearisome in 
the extreme, but in his conversation there was such a mix- 
ture of poetical and prosaic beauty, of sentiment, solemnity 
and wit, that no one, who heard him at such times, and 
who was at all capable of appreciating intellectual brillian- 
cy, but regretted when he ceased. 

The Sabbaths that we passed together were very delight- 
ful. I could then enjoy his company during the whole of 
the day. Our tastes differed somewhat in respect to our 
preferences both for books and men. Luther was one of his 



140 MEMOIR OF 

favourites, Melancthon mine. Paul was his especial admi- 
ration ; he had many feelings in common with him ; he de- 
lighted in his discourses and letters. I had more sympathy 
with the apostle John, and I delighted to arouse him to con- 
troversy, by depreciating his favourites and extolling my 
own. On such occasions he would warm into eloquence 
that was irresistible, and overwhelm me with argument. 
He often said, that " the highest happiness he anticipated in 
heaven, after the immediate presence of Jehovah himself, 
was the conversation and society of the apostle Paul. The 
glorious realities of eternity, were frequent topics of conver- 
sation with him. It might truly be said that he lived only 
in the future. His watchword was Faith, his constant aim 
the true and the right. 

We were in the habit of devoting an hour on Sabbath 
evening to singmg. Mr. Graham always expressed great 
fondness for music, but he derived enjoyment principally 
from simple melodies, such as he had heard in his childhood. 
He never wearied of sacred music. He did not join in the 
melody, but gathering our little family around the fire in 
the twilight, he would repeat hymns for us to sing, until the 
bell rang for church. His retentive memory showed itself 
here also. Sometimes, when we would be sitting alone in 
the darkness, he would playfully ask me how many hymns 
I would have, or how many chapters from the Bible ; and 
beginning as I directed, he would repeat, with low melo- 
dious voice, the sacred words, until we were interrupted, or 
weariness forced him to pause. 

In the month of July Mr. Graham closed his school for a 
vacation of six weeks. An exhibition, held on the last even- 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 141 

ing-, in preparation for which he had expended a great deal 
of time, did him much credit. Intellectual amusements, 
even of this low order, had been few and far between in 
Harrisburg, but this was crowded by citizens of the town, 
and was looked upon as a beginning of better things. 

A valedictory poem was spoken on this occasion by one of 
the students ; and I cannot forbear mentioning the circum- 
stances under which it was composed. It was a lovely 
Saturday morning. The exhibition was to take place the 
following Friday. He had promised it to the student, and 
had not yet written one line. We were very anxious to go 
out boating on the river, and as he came out of school at ten 
o'clock, urged him to accompany us. He said that he had 
tasked himself to this work, and wished us to wait. We 
did so, and I sat by his side, marvelling at the rapidity with 
which his pen went jingling on, and copying the couplets 
as they were composed. At three o'clock he was ready, 
and as he folded the sheet he exclaimed, with the most 
touching earnestness, in reply to my comments on the 
poem, "This is mere play, Ellee, this is nothing; wait 
until next winter — wait until I come back, and then I will 
show you what I can do." 

The morning following the exhibition, Mr. Graham start- 
ed for the west, by way of Newark and Baltimore. I can 
never cease to regret that I did not yield to his urgent per- 
suasions, and accompany him, but for many reasons it was 
not convenient for me to do so. He was gone from five to 
six weeks. When he left home he was thin, pale, and ex- 
hausted with the cares and anxieties of a year of labour ; 
when he returned he was thinner, paler, more exliausted 



J 42 MEMOIR OF 

still. He wearied very soon of travelling alone. Yet hav- 
ing marked out his course, he determined to pursue it. For 
the first two weeks his letters were cheerful, and full of the 
pleasure of meetmg with old familiar friends — but ever after, 
their tone was sad and full of sighs for home and rest. Some 
reason for a despondency so unusual with him, may be found 
in the hurried manner in which he travelled. He was not 
strong enough to bear fatigue, and there was no occasion 
for haste ; but, as I have said before, he looked upon this 
excursion, not as a pleasant recreation, but as a bitter medi- 
cine, to be taken and got over as fast as possible. One 
extract from the numerous letters written during his absence, 
will give the reader an idea of the effect even of ordinary 
fatigue upon him, and the manner in which he journeyed. 

" Since I last wrote to you, I have come through much 
tribulation, and been tossed and knocked about in the world, 
until all comfort, or power to be comfortable, and almost the 
life, was shaken out of me. On Wednesday morning I left 
Baltimore in the cars, after eating my breakfast at 6 o'clock, 
and no rest had I, or any other one of the company, until I 
gobbled a hasty rusk or two, at 10 o'clock that night at 
Cumberland. You may be sure sixteen hours of abstinence, 
and jolting in the cars, with steam to breathe, and the ever- 
lasting growling of the engine for music, did not brighten 
my energies for any profound speculations, during the three 
minutes that were allowed us to brush, wash, comb, eat, 
attend to our baggage, and mount the stage in at Cumber- 
land ; and yet I could not help laughing as I ate, to think of 
the discovery I had made of the utility of speedy mastica- 
tion, about which you scold so much. My head was swim- 
ming, my clothes dusty, my stomach starving, my throat 
crammed, my senses worn out, and my soul sick, when I 



WELLIAM S. GRAHAM. 243 

stepped into the stage that night. I soon found I had a 
precious set of companions ! One raw-boned, rowdy-looking- 
corn-cracker of the West, one quiet little spectacled Catho- 
lic priest, with his straight black coat and prayer-book, three 
fat, dirty Dutch girls, three fatter, dirtier, dutchier men, 
one, dirtiest of all, crying child, (crying in Dutch !) and 
myself! 

"Well! the Dutch and the horses started together, and 
neither stopped that night, or the next day, or the next 
night, until we entered Wheeling at 12 o'clock! The 
horses were exchanged on the way, but not the Dutch. 
The child cried for ' Zuckerbrot,^ and when it got it, cried 
out, like a little Goethe, ^das ist gut P But there is no 
word in English that will express the filthiness of the whole 
lot, and yet I sat through those two long nights, crammed 
in between the priest and the fattest and dirtiest of the 
Dutchmen, who never stopped talking, without beginning 
to snore, and his head down straight on my shoulder ! At 
12 o'clock, Thursday night, we drove into Wheeling sick 
and hungry, (for I had eaten nothing from 8 o'clock that 
morning, another sixteen hours !) weary, sleepy, (O ! how 
sleepy !) and more dead than alive. We found the river 
swollen by late rains, and the Germantown, a very good 
boat, just on the point of starting ; of course we drove right 
to the shore, (for they don't have wharves in this country of 
rising and falling rivers,) got on board, secured a berth, and 
were under w^ay in five minutes. Such a good hit does not 
occur to a traveller here once in five years. I took a good 
nap in the second story of our state-room — that is, in the 
upper berth. To-day we have had a very pleasant time, 
delightful in contrast with its predecessors, and expect to 
be in Cincinnati to-morrow, sometime in the afternoon. I 
shall stay there until Monday, and reach Piqua, if well, 
Monday night. 

" Saturday morning, 9 o'clock. Since writing the above, 
we have been feeling our way through a heavy fog, and of 



J 44 MEMOIR OF 

course gone slowly. I have become well acquainted with 
the priest. He is a Professor of Theology in the seminary 
at St. Louis, a learned and very ingenious man. Accident 
brought on a discussion last night, and spontaneous combus- 
tion kept us going about three hours, with a considerable 
audience around. I bought in Philadelphia, * Reminiscences 
of S. T. Coleridge and Southey,' by Cottle, just reprinted 
from a London edition. It is very interesting, especially as 
it brings out much of Coleridge's opium failmg, which has 
heretofore been kept in the dark. I also procured there 
some 200 pages of an Introduction by Sara Coleridge, a 
review and defence of her father's writings, and full of meta- 
physical genius ! With these books I have sought to while 
away the tedium of travel, &.C., &.c. 

" Saturday evening, 6 o'clock. We are within ten miles 
of Cincinnati — a beautiful evening; our boat is running down 
at a fine rate towards the setting sun, between hilly shores 
on the Ohio side covered with corn and oats, and on the 
Kentucky side, crowned with unbroken forest. There is a 
great change in this country since last I saw it ; the forests 
have fled, and green fields and neat homesteads are in their 
place. I am on the deck, as are fifty others, and while they 
are talking and laughing, I am thinking only of thee ! This 
last hour on the Ohio has been the most pleasant since I left 
home, every thing in sight is full of joy, and I am glad at the 
prospect of rest on the Sabbath." 

A week or ten days after the date of this letter, Mr. Gra- 
ham returned by way of the lakes to New York. On the 
route, most unfortunately for his health, he gave neither his 
mental nor physical powers the rest they needed, but hurried 
from place to place, his only companion a profound metaphy- 
sical work. In accordance with an appointment previously 
made, he attended the Commencement at New Haven. 
Here he remained several days, forming acquaintances, from 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. X45 

whose friendship he hoped to derive both pleasure and profit 
in coming years, and winning for himself golden opinions 
from all who heard him converse, or caught even a glimpse 
of the treasures of his mind. The impression that he there 
made upon some kindred spirits, heretofore strangers, by his 
powers for argument and eloquent exposition of Coleridgean- 
ism, will not soon be forgotten. 

Still his letters breathed despondency and weariness, and 
I began, with an indefinable anxiety, to long for his return. 
Never, never shall I forget the hour of his arrival. He came 
up in the night-train, and greeted us suddenly, as I stood 
in the door on a bright September morn. The sun shone 
brightly through the warm mist, the river ran merrily by, 
the birds warbled their most joyful strains, all nature seemed 
to rejoice in the return of the wanderer, but I welcomed 
him to his home only with tears. He was the same, but yet 
how changed. His cheek was flushed, his eyes were bright. 
I shall never forget the unearthly beauty of those eyes — the 
spiritual impression conveyed to a beholder by his whole 
appearance. The spirit hovering within its boundaries, 
seemed to sanctify its resting place. His whole soul seemed 
to be alive, and longing to burst its prison-house. I felt that 
I should scarcely have been surprised, had it taken wings 
and visibly flown away. The delight and enthusiasm with 
which he greeted each familiar face, the artless eloquence 
with which, after changing his dress, he related several 
amusing adventures, betraying absence of mind and inabil- 
ity to take care of himself, and sketched the various contre- 
temps which had befallen him the last few days, was touch- 
ing and fascinating in the extreme. 
13 



J 46 MEMOIR OP 

" For there was round him such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore." 

How innocent was the merriment around our dinner-table 
that day — ^how heartfelt his enjoyment, how joyous his praises 
of the fruit of his own vines, and the abundant supply from 
our own garden that covered it ! Sweeter were they to his 
taste than any thing he had eaten elsewhere ; more beautiful 
was every object around him than aught the world could 
offer. But soon the factitious strength, imparted by excite- 
ment, gave way, and in perfect exhaustion he sought his 
room. He was totally unnerved, depressed beyond every 
thing I had ever seen before. "I am very, very weary," 
was all the reason he assigned for this. " I do not believe 
I shall ever feel rested again." I imputed his weakness to 
over fatigue, and felt sure that in a few days the good effects 
of his trip would be apparent. I dreamed not how tender 
and susceptible were his feelings, nor how nearly exhausted 
were the springs of life. 

Gradually he recovered from the extreme fatigue which 
had at first overpowered his energetic spirit, and gave his 
attention to his school and friends. I lost the anxiety I had 
felt on his return, in beholding him as lively, active, and 
hopeful as ever. The following stanzas, written for my 
sister, on the eve of her departure from Harrisburg, after 
having paid us a long visit, will not be uninteresting as the 
last piece of poetry he ever wrote — 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. I47 

When Susie came to Harrisburg, June's merriest birds were 

singing, 
The flowers were laughing in the sun, and wide their fragrance 

flinging ; 
The woods were in their gayest dress, the air was balm as even, 
And a deep joy was on the hills, and on the face of heaven. 

Our Susie goes from Harrisburg, when summer birds are going, 
When the last rose begins to fade, and autumn winds are blowing ; 
A sadder hue is on the sky, and o'er the forest stealing. 
And through the deep aisles of the wood, a solemn dirge is pealing. 

When Susie came to Harrisburg, the summer was before us, 

To birds and streams and humming bees, her music brought the 

chorus ; 
Her smile was blended with the light of all the pleasant weather — 
Ah ! then we knew that sweetest things did love to dwell together ! 

Our Susie goes from Harrisburg, when southward winter dreary 
Is hurrying with his frozen storms, and dark days, cold and weary ; 
No more her smile or happy song shall charm the fearful weather, 
Ah ! now we know, that sweetest things do all depart together ! 
September 11, 1847. 

Mr. Graham had been so fortunate as to gain, in the Epis- 
copalian minister of Harrisburg-, the Rev. J. Rowland Coit, 
not only a warm personal friend, but an invaluable assistant 
in his school, and hoped, through the winter, to be relieved 
of at least half his duties by his co-operation. Unfortu- 
nately, almost immediately after the academy was re-opened, 
Mr. Coit was taken ill; and daily expecting his convales- 
cence, Mr. Graham, whose school was now very large, per- 
formed, for several weeks, double duty, to the serious injury 
of his already overtasked constitution — still toiling on, still 
looking forward, and apparently upon the very verge of the 



248 MEMOIR OP 

resting place ! Wlio is there toiling in this money-getting 
world, whether for daily bread or the luxuries of life who 
has not ahead some oasis toward which he is pressing"? 
Some toil for fame — how many more for rest ! During his 
absence he had said to one of his friends, " I have reached at 
last a clear field and a quiet sky, and I hope soon to sit down 
to gratify that love of study, which has been my torment and 
my distant hope, through the eight years of my bondage to 
this world ; and I dream of depths and heights in the realms 
of philosophy and literature, which I shall yet learn to 
explore." To many of his friends he said, " I am now just 
ready to live ; as soon as I reach home I shall have a library, 
and begin to study." Alas ! that just as he was beginning, 
he should end ! 

But why linger, where I fain would pause forever. The 
summons had been sent forth, the angel of death had started 
upon his errand, the seeds of disease, long sown, had taken 
deep root, and were about to bear fruit. A fettered spirit 
was to be freed from its prison of clay, and its noble ener- 
gies translated to a wider sphere of action, where its en- 
larged desires for knowledge should find the food so earnest- 
ly craved on earth, without weariness, exhaustion, or painful 
emotion. 

On Monday evening, September 16, Mr. Graham entered 
his study, complaining of chilliness and slight indisposition. 
Tuesday morning a physician was called in, and he sent a 
message to his scholars, that he would not be able to teach 
before Thursday. Dr. Reilly declared his disease to be 
bilious fever, and expressed little anxiety about it, except 
what arose from the very delicate constitution of his patient. 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. I49 

For two days he continued violently sick, suffering much 
pain, but on Thursday the doctor considered the disease con- 
quered, and prepared to give him tonics to restore him from 
the weak state to which the medicines had reduced him. 
They had not, however, the effect that was wished. For 
several days he remained exceedingly weak. He was im- 
pressed with the idea that he would never recover, and 
spoke of it frequently. His great desire was for sleep; but 
if for a moment he forgot himself in slumber, he would start 
and struggle, and cry aloud, that he " was being trampled 
to death" — that " the crowd pressed him too close." Al- 
though perfectly conscious, when wide awake, he would, 
when sleeping, seem to lose all control over his mental 
faculties, and the ruling passion of his soul became his tor- 
ment. " I cannot get to the end of this argument ; my brain 
is weary, and yet, as soon as I lose my consciousness, it will 
go to work again" — and then he would entreat not to be 
allowed to go to sleep, although sleep seemed all that he 
needed to make him well. 

" Still its unconquered powers the mind displayed, 
But worn with anxious thought the frame decayed." 

His sole attendant, during the first week of his sickness, 
my lonely vigils were interrupted only by the frequent visits 
and devoted attention of the most excellent of physicians. 
I cannot here forbear one word of praise of this most esti- 
mable man. One of the greatest sources of consolation that 
bereaved friends can have, is the assurance tliat God's fiat, 
and not man's negligence, was the cause of their great loss. 
In this case the most exacting and sorrowuig heart is com- 
13* 



250 MEMOIR OF 

pelled to admit, that all that human skill could do, to alle- 
viate pain or save life, was done. A more skilful, tender, 
and attentive physician, it has never been my lot to meet 
with. He smoothed the path of the beloved down the dark 
valley, with a skill and tenderness that no devotion of bro- 
ther, lover, or friend, ever exceeded. In the early part of 
Mr. Graham's illness, with all the duties of a large practice, 
during- a sickly season, pressing upon liim, he visited him 
from four to six times a day ; and at a more dangerous and 
critical period, he lingered hours by his bedside, and the 
midnight and the morning found him alike a watcher. He 
prepared with his own hands the nourishing drink, dressed 
the blister, or obeyed each trifling request ; and throughout 
those long days and nights, when afar from father and home, 
a lonely and anxious wife hovered in speechless anguish 
around the couch of the sufferer, he was the ministering 
angel, the guardian spirit, the only earthly sustainer and 
support — not for gain, not for fame — he had already abun- 
dance of such reward — ^but from the impulses of his own kind 
heart, his pity for the stranger, his gratitude to the faithful 
teacher of his sons, his love for the gentle and gifted being 
fading from his sight. May He, who meteth unto others as 
they have measured out, expend upon him and his the rich- 
est of his blessings ! 

On the 23d, Mr. Graham seemed slightly stronger, 
although still unable to sit up. He talked more hopefully 
of his recovery, and began to lay some plans for the future. 
He said that he thought by Saturday he should be well 
enough to ride to New London, and visit again the beloved 
haunts of his childhood. "Nothing will do me so much 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 151 

good as that." " I shall never be quite well again until I 
can drink from the old well, a whole bucket full of that 
cool water." That afternoon, while I sat bathing his head 
with ice-water, my tears, unseen by him, falling like rain, 
he rambled on in slow, sweet words, discoursing of those 
early days when he followed his father to the field in pros- 
pect of a storm, and describing in vivid colours the delights 
of the hay-harvest, and the hurrying home. The honest 
farmers who then formed his world, his father's friends, came 
in, one by one, for their share of commendation, and his 
heart seemed overflowing with reminiscences of the past. 
He talked of his mother — of each brother and sister living 
or dead, and wearied at last, reverted to the expected visit 
with earnest hope, and turning his eyes, fraught with a 
whole soul's tenderness upon me, he murmured, " The plan 
is precious, Ellee, but I cannot go without you, I will never 
leave you again !" 

It may be, that I have trespassed upon the reader's 
patience in this minute description, but in my heart it is 
registered with a terrible distinctness, and the memory of 
those few hours is more precious than rubies. It was the 
last conversation of any length that I ever held with him — 
the last free interchange of love and thought between two 
beings who, for five years, had lived, moved, and had their 
being only in each other. 

Although his physician declared him free from fever, his 
constant request was for ice-water. Unconscious as I was, 
until three days before his death, of his being at all in dan- 
ger, and unaccustomed to sickness of a serious nature, my 
confidence in his speedy recovery had never for a moment 



152 MEMOIR OP 

deserted me. The power of death is a hard lesson to learn, 
and there are some hearts which it is difficult to impress with 
fear. Refusing' the request of a kind friend to be permitted 
to watch all night, I remained alone by the couch of sick- 
ness, and once, at his request, retired into the adjoining room 
to lie down. After an hour of perfect silence, what was my 
surprise to feel a hand laid upon my head, and a voice ex- 
claim, "Oh! Ellee, I thought that you were dead, and I 
came to see !" From this moment he could not bear to be 
left alone ; a kind and judicious friend was admitted to his 
room, and shared, through every trying hour that followed, 
the cares of his wife and physician. Tonics and nourishing 
drinks were now his only medicines ; and every remedy that 
medical skill could devise, was resorted to, in hope of arous- 
ing- his sinking energies. On Thursday, when I thought 
him much better, and was almost gay in the anticipation, I 
was suddenly informed of the necessity of apprising our 
mutual relatives of his danger, as all hope of recovery was 
at an end, unless a speedy change took place. It was very 
hard to believe. He was in no pain, was fully sensible, had 
much muscular strength, and was himself more hopeful than 
before. I was prepared for a speedy, almost miraculous, re- 
covery — but not at all for death. Steadily refusing to admit 
despair into my heart, or to acknowledge the influenc*.? of 
fear, I returned to the chamber of the invalid to gather fresh 
courage. Alas ! I was never more to find it there. The 
pale cheek seemed paler than when I left, the blue eye 
more dim, the gaze less full of feeling and expression than 
an hour before. The faint pressure of the hand was scarce- 
ly perceptible ; and the faltering words which, repeating the 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. J53 

oft told story of the faint heart and weary limb, predicted a 
speedy death, and which had been regarded heretofore as but 
the effusion of a desponding- spirit, seemed now the voice of 
prophecy or sad presentiment. The pleasant study seemed 
converted into the valley of shadows, the air to grow close, 
and the angel of death, with extended wing, to hover around 
waiting for his prey. For thirty-six hours there was but 
little change — ^gentle, quiet, patient, there he lay, but ever 
asserting his disbelief in his ultimate recovery. 

Saturday morning before daylight, he suddenly exclaimed, 
"I am dying — I shall go very soon." He desired to be 
raised, that he might take his last leave of the world, and 
leave messages for his friends. This, in his usual distinct 
manner, he did, mentioning, by name, his early friends of 
New London, leaving to them his love ; to his brothers and 
sister, to all of his relatives, leaving special messages of love 
and Christian advice ; and then, clasping his hands together, 
he burst into such an ecstasy of gratitude and love for his 
Saviour, of longing aspirations after the bliss of heaven, of 
the glory of the redemption and the atonement, as thrilled 
the hearts of all who heard him. In signing his will, he 
could not be satisfied without adding even to it, his testi- 
mony to the affections of earth and the bliss of heaven. " I 
love you all — I hope to meet you all in heaven — This 
is my will, that ye^ be with me, even as I am'"' — traced in 
almost unintelligible letters, bears affecting witness both to 
his tenderness an'd his piety. 

His worldly duties done, he now begged to be straight- 
ened for the grave, "he should die in five minutes;" and 
with one long lingering gaze of wistftil tenderness upon the 



254 MEMOIR OF 

face he loved best on earth, he closed his eyes and awaited 
death. But his hour was not yet come. He lingered still, 
weary, but not impatient, desiring to live, that he might 
atone for the wasted hours of the past, but resigned to die, 
if it was the will of that Saviour in whose arms he reposed. 
Through the waters that overwhelmed his soul, he distin- 
guished the dim shores of eternity beyond, and with the 
humility, as well as the confidence, of a little child, awaited 
the result. To a friend who called on Saturday morning, 
he remarked, "You will never be able to preach the valley 
of the shadow of death ! I could preach it ! I have passed 
almost through it." 

"I have passed through horrible darkness, but it is 



" Jesus will take me safely through the rest." 

" I have been in deep waters, and Satan had strong hold 
upon me, but my Saviour has conquered, my blessed, blessed 
Saviour ! He can hold me up !" 

To a lady, who had won his regard from his first arrival in 
Harrisburg, but who had especially endeared herself to him by 
her attention during his illness, he said, grasping her hand, 
" Mrs. G., I shall love you in heaven !" And after convers- 
ing with a coloured man, who waited upon him, with regard 
to the Wesleyan church of Harrisburg, he remarked, "How 
many jewels for my crown I might have won, had I but been 
faithful to those poor souls." 

Many such expressions fell from his lips during this weary 
day and restless night. Over and over again, he would 
request the pillow to be taken from his head, that he might 
depart. On one such occasion, he exclaimed, " To God the 



WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. ;[55 

Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, do I com- 
mend myself; He will take care of me, the God to whom I 
was given in baptism — the God whom I acknowledge in 
communion — the God whom I have tried to serve — my God ! 
He will not forsake me. Why does he tarry "? Why are his 
chariot wheels so long in coming "?" He sank slowly, but 
surely, so wearied with the long struggle, so worn out with 
excitement of feeling, that he would watch the countenance 
of his physician for the fatal sentence, and express his regret 
when he found it delayed. But no expression of pain or 
impatience escaped him. He was ever averse to any ex- 
pression of deep feeling. He could write passionately, but 
from his lips never fell a word stronger than gentle tender- 
ness or mild rebuke. It was this knowledge, on my part, 
that gave double agony to his last illness. He was patient 
and thankful for the smallest attention, abounding in tender 
anxiety for my health, following the slightest movement 
with his eyes, yet wearing never even the shadow of a 
smile ; his eyes losing not, for an instant, that anxious, wist- 
ful, appealing look, which seemed to say, " I dare not trust 
myself to speak." And so he died. On Sabbath morning, 
October 3, 1847, on the anniversary of the day that four 
years before had witnessed his marriage, clasping my hand, 
and gazing into my eyes with that earnest look, which even 
death could not alter, his spirit burst its bonds, and rose on 
triumphant wings to find perfect happiness in the bosom of 
its God. 

In the grave-yard of a lonely country church, some two 
miles from the track of the Philadelphia and Baltimore Rail- 



156 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 

road, rest the mortal remains of William S. Graham. Far 
from the hum and shock of men, the waters of the White 
Clay Creek flow tranquilly by. The budding leaves of spring 
expand into the greenness and beauty of summer, or touched 
by the breath of winter, fall tranquilly around his tomb. 

" There is naught to disturb the silence there, 

But the night wind gently driven ; 
Or the murmur low of the spring-bird near, 

To distant echo given." 

A broken column marks the spot where his form reposes, 
bearing this inscription : 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY 
OF 

WILLIAM S. GRAHAM, 

WHO depahted this life, 

October 3, 1847, 

" Looking unto Jesus." 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



14 



FRIENDSHIP. 

" All like the purchase, few the price will pay, 
And this makes friends such miracles below." 

Young. 

Man rises not to sport on Fortune's tide, 

Then pass unnoticed down the stream of years ; 
He moves the centre of a system wide, 

And round his pathway scatters smiles or tears. 

Not lone the fabric of his hopes he rears — 
Warm hearts beat high to hear of his renown. 

His star ascending, some fond bosom cheers. 
Or leaves in gloom, as darkly it goes down. 
With secret tears and sad, his memory long to 
crown. 

Alas, for him who roams the world alone. 

With unshared sorrows preying at his heart ; 
His spirit proud, by long endurance grown 

Callous and cold, disdains affliction's dart. 

His soul is frozen, and no more shall start 
The tears of anguish in his burning eye ; 

'Mongst mortals scorned, he acts his lonely part, 
Then lays him down in solitude to die. 
And sinks into the grave unwept, without a sigh. 



2 go POETICAL REMAINS. 

Sweet Friendship, charmer of a dreary way, 

The brightest image in Ufe's sickly dream. 
In thy kind smiles the saddest soul is gay, 

And rays of comfort in the darkness gleam. 

The frozen heart sends forth a fertile stream 
Of rich affections, watering all the soul; 

A thousand pleasures blossom in thy beam, 
To deck man's pathway to his gloomy goal, 
And hide the clustering thorns, e'en thou canst 
not control. 

In youth, the tide of passion swelling high 

O'erleaps the bounds of reason. Fancy shows 
The distant world in colours of the sky. 

And inexperience fears no secret foes. 

The trusting heart 'mong thistles seeks repose, 
And sees a friend in every smiling face ; 

Till disappointment o'er the prospect blows 
With chilling blast, the illusion bright to chase, 
And leaves the withered heart to weep in lone- 
liness. 

Men walk in masks, deceiving and deceived, 
And fall into the nets themselves have spread ; 

Hope ever cheating smiles, and is believed, 

And half the world goes dreaming to the dead. 



POETICAL REMAINS. jgj 

With careless steps enchanted ground we tread, 
Where naught is real that salutes the eyes ; 

A magic scene where most are blindfold led, 
And act their parts beneath a deep disguise, 
Till death the vision ends, and wakes them to 
surprise. 

Each virtue hath its counterfeit, and oft 
A demon lurks beneath an angel's smile ; 

Rehgion's mantle throws a radiance soft 
O'er spirits dark, and hides the secret guile 
That swells like poison through the soul the while. 

The name of Friendship is blasphemed for gain. 
And thousands crowd her altars to defile 

With gifts unholy, cursed with mammon's stain. 

Which eats into the heart, and makes their homage 
vain. 

Wealth, reputation, ease, may take them wings 

And leave the wretch to infamy and want ; 
But a pure breast, will soothe a thousand stings, 

And friendship's smile light up affliction's haunt. 

'Tis not in fortune or the world to daunt, 
Howe'er they break, the spirit armed with truth ; 

But heaviest falls the false friend's bitter taunt, 
And pierces deepest with envenomed tooth. 
Poisoning the fount of life, e'en in the heart of youth. 
14* 



IQ2 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Earth has no deadlier foe, than faithless friend, 

The thrust descends where most secure we feel ; 
The viper, sleeping in the breast, may send 

A pang more fatal than the assassin's steel. 

All other wounds some medicine may heal, 
Hope wipes the tear from suffering's haggard eye, 

Time soothes the soul where grief has set its seal; 
But who may balm to wounded heart apply ? 
When friends we've loved grow cold, 'tis time for 
us to die ! 
1835. 



WRITTEN ON THE FIRST PAGE OF A SISTER'S 
ALBUM. 

There is one who hath gone to his rest, 
Whose name on this page should appear, 

Though the grave where he slumbers no marble 
hath pressed ; 

Embalmed by affection in many a breast, 
His mem'ry shall ever be dear. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 163 

We weep not, though lowly he lies, 

Enshrouded in coldness and gloom, 
Though the breeze that sweeps over him mourn- 
fully sighs, 
And the dews of the evening, like tears from the 
skies. 
In silence descend on his tomb. 

He sleeps with his people around, 

For whom he long laboured with tears ; 
The rest of the weary at length he hath found, 
And sweet is his slumber, though low in the 
ground. 
Earth's tumult no longer he hears. 

His heart was acquainted with grief. 
He wept when the world knew it not. 

Whilst others deserted, he stood by his chief; 

When friends looked on coldly, he found a relief, 
Where the mourner is never forgot. 

Though hoary the locks of his head, 

'Twas not with the blossom of years ; 
Not time o'er his cheek those deep furrows had 

spread, 
But care her white frosts o'er his temples had 
shed, — 
Those lines were the channels of tears. 



jg4 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Worn out by the race he had run, 

He hath gone to enjoy his reward, 
To present to his master the souls he has won, 
And receive from his Hps the glad welcome, 
" Well done, 

" Enter into the joy of thy Lord." 

Death came not in terrors arrayed. 

Rejoicing he went to the tomb ; 
Though he walked through the valley, he was not 

afraid. 
For his Saviour was near, in the midst of the 
shade, 
And lit up his path through the gloom. 

No more his kind smile we shall meet, 
His voice shall address us no more ; 
The sinner no longer with tears he'll entreat, 
Nor over the emblems the story repeat. 
His labours and sorrows are o'er. 

There are souls in the ranks of the blest, 

Who have welcomed their pastor above, 
And others he'll greet as they rise to their rest, 
And unite with his people, where naught can mo- 
lest. 
In the praise of Immanuel's love. 



POETICAL REMAINS. Ig5 

Though distant his spirit has fled, 

From the regions of darkness and wo, 
In silence he speaks from the land of the dead — 
" My people remember the words that I said, 
" While yet I was with you below." 
1837. 



THE SPIRIT'S HOME. 

On the cloud-covered mount, o'er the foam of the 
waves. 

In her wanderings the spirit hath been, 
Hath walked 'mid the coral in ocean's dark caves, 

And the ruins of empires hath seen. 
To commune with the mighty who quake on the 
throne. 

To regions remote she hath fled. 
Hath gazed on the captives in darkness who groan, 

And wept o'er the fields of the dead. 

'Mid the orbs that wheel nightly their course 
through the sky. 

On fancy's wild wing she hath strayed, * 

Where Nature sits throned in her temple on high, 

In the robes of her grandeur arrayed. 



jgg POETICAL REMAINS. 

From the verge of creation, where chaos appears, 
She hath looked o'er Jehovah's domains ; 

Hath witnessed secure the wild dance of the 
spheres, 
And heard their mysterious strains. 

With spirits departed communion to hold. 

She hath sought the retreats of the dead, 
Conversed with the shades of the heroes of old, 

And mourned with the brave who have bled. 
She hath gone to the tomb of affection to weep, 

Where friendship in darkness has lain ; 
And fancy has roused the cold form from its sleep. 

And arrayed it in beauty again. 

She hath turned from the darkness and frailly 
below, 
From the brightness and coldness above. 
From the land of the dead, in" its silence and wo, 

To repose in the bosom of love. 
As weary the dove o'er the waters did roam. 

When the earth in the deluge was drowned. 
The spirit must wander unblest, 'till its home 
• In the heart of affection is found. 
1837. 



POETICAL REMAINS. jg-y 



THE SWALLOW. 



" Good day," to the ants, the swallow cried. 

As she took her morning walk ; 
" We are laying up stores," the ants repHed, 

" And have no time to talk." 

" Come sport with me 'mid the summer haunts, 
While the flowers are smiling gay ;" 

" But winter comes," said the busy ants, 
" And we must work to-day." 

" You are wise, you are wise," the swallow said, 

And away at the word she hies. 
And her nest she filled with spiders dead. 

And piled it up with flies. 

" Why this, my dear !" said an aged bird. 

As she looked at her busy child. 
" Oh, mother, help ! from the ants I've heard 

Of a time when storms are wild !" 



Igig POETICAL REMAINS. 

" Cease, foolish child," and her mother smiled, 

To hear her daughter prate ; 
" Toil suits the ants — our Maker grants 

To us a happier fate. 

" With the sweets of summer we hie away, 

And leave the withering flowers ; 
And slumbering warm in the fens we lay, 

Through winter's cheerless hours. 

" Nor thirst, nor hunger, we there shall know, 

Nor feel the drenching rain ; 
And when spring returns, and the warm winds 
blow. 

We'll mount to life again." 

MORAL. 

Thus thousands weep for a golden heap. 

To brighter prospects blind ; 
Who soon must sleep, in the grave-yard deep. 

And leave their wealth behind. 
1837. 



POETICAL REMAINS. ^qq 



TO MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

WRITTEN OX A BLANK PAGE IN HEB MEMOIK. 

Beautiful spirit ! from what brighter sphere 
Cam'st thou to wither in too cold a clime ? 

Whence beamed the glory that shone round thee 
here, 
And left its traces in the Halls of Time, 
Whil'st thou art gone upon thy course sublime ? 

Whence came those notes, whose untaught music 
flowed 
Unstudied as Castalia's sacred chime — 

Like echoes of high Heaven's immortal ode, 

Breathing such visions fair, as never earth bestowed ? 

And thou art gone to shine in other skies, 

Leaving earth brighter for thy transient stay ! 
From the pure fountain of thy soul-lit eyes 

A beam of heaven is added to our day ! 

Not all thy brightness with thee passed away — 
Like the last smile of the departing sun. 

Thy memory round thy native hills shall play ; 
And glorious dreams and robes of light are won 
For every star and stream thou loved'st to gaze 
upon. 
15 



JYO POETICAL REMAINS. 

Bright spirit ! could we trace thy homeward flight, 
We'd learn the region whence those glories rise 

That flash in meteor gUmpses on our night, 
And tell of other worlds, and purer skies. 
Whence draws the rainbow its celestial dyes ? 

Whence comes the beauty of the flowery spring? 

Whence — 

[Unfinished.] 
1842. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



171 



PHILOPGENA. 

" I have a passion for the name of Mary^ 
For once it was a magic sound to me." 



BxRoir. 



"And e'en Mahommed, born for love and guile, 
Forgot the Koran in his Mary''s smile." 

Moore. 

MiLTox in his thirty-fifth year married Mary. 

" For dear to me as life and light 

Is my sweet Highland MaryP Burns. 

" Mary ! the moon is sleeping on thy grave." 

H. K. White. 

" Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 
That I may sound thy worth with honor due." 

COWPEB. 

" Little Mary^s eye 

Is roguish and all that, sir." 

Moore. 

"In beauty and wit, no mortal as yet 
To question your empire has dared." 

Pope. 

There's a magic in names, and if ever I heard 

A sound like the voice of a Fairy, 
To startle bright dreams in the soul with a word, 

That sound full of music is — Mary. 



J72 POETICAL REMAINS. 

" Eternity's Pilgrim," enveloped in clouds, 
Whose blackness no sunshine could vary, 

Passed gloomy and lone amid earth's gazing crowds, 
And smiled on but one — it was Mary. 

And e'en the " Impostor," long practised in lies, 

With a spirit in wickedness wary, 
An angel called down, with a text from the skies. 

To sanction the love of his Mary. 

The bard, who from Paradise brings to our view 
Young Eve, in the bloom of a Fairy, 

That picture of beauty and innocence drew. 
When he thought of his own lovely Mary. 

And Scotia's sweet minstrel, whose heart, far from 
guile, 

Disdained not the maid of 4he dairy, - 
Though many a lassie received a warm smile, 

Loved dearest his Sweet Highland Mary. 

Sad Henry, who fell, in the spring of his days, 

A victim to genius unwary. 
With Cyprus surrounded his brows, while his bays 

He spread on the tomb of his Mary. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 3^73 

The bard of Religion, sweet Cowper, oft sung 

In measures both solemn and airy ; 
But sweetest his numbers arose, when he strung 

His harp to the praise of his Mary. 

Anacreon Moore, with his Mary's soft name 

His numbers delighted to vary ; 
And the Homer of Britain left Troy's fairest dame, 

To sing to his lovelier Mary. 

Thus oft to Parnassus the poet has gone, 
For a wreath for the brow of his dearie ; 

Thus oft in high strains of immortal renown. 
Embalmed the sweet name of his Mary. 

Then, lady, accept the slight tribute I bring, 
From the Muse in her jealousy chary : 

Though others have sounded a loftier string. 
None sang for a lovelier Mary ! 
1842. 



15* 



174 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO 



The minstrel, as his wild notes die 

Along the mountains lone, 
Hears Echo from her caves reply, 

Nor knows the strain his own. 

The maid, in glassy stream, surveys 

Her face, reflected bright, 
And deems she views, with raptured gaze, 

A heaven with stars of light. 

But not from Echo's caves the song 
That charms the listening air. 

And not to glassy streams belong 
Those orbs so softly fair. 

Music and beauty thus reclaim 
The thousand joys they give ; 

And 'mid their echoes, in their own 
Reflected sweetness live. 

Dead were the eye, on which thy glance 

Left not its lightning track ; 
And dead the heart, that heard thy voice. 

Nor echoed music back. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 

But could'st thou look beneath the eye, 

And hear the murmurs low 
Of those deep streams, that silently 

Through the heart's channel flow — 

E'en then, beneath those shadowy waves, 
Thine image thou might'st see. 

And hear within their haunted caves. 
An echo rise for thee ! 
1842. 



175 



176 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



To sing 
For E. D. G. 

Not Phoebus' lute I bring, 

Nor heavenly muse from sacred spring, 

Or mountains, where her favourite dwellings be; 

But in the thoughtful silence of the moon's sad Ught, 

When the still earth is wrapped in dreams, and fancy, sporting free, 

Wakes memories in the heart's deep cell, and visions fair to see ; 

While from the past arise dear forms of old delight, 

And for the future, hope unfolds her wing; 

The thoughts that come, like billows bright 

Upon a starry sea, 

Shall sing to-night 

To thee. 

The Stars are out ; in her silvery car 

The moon rides up the sky ; 
The winds have fled to their caves afar. 
On the hills the echoes slumbering are, 

Where the quiet moonbeams lie — 
Why gaze I thus on that beauteous star, 

With a tear-drop in my eye ? 



POETICAL REMAINS. I77 

E'en now, as I watched, through the azure clear, 

That star as it blazed along. 
An echo fell on my spirit's ear. 
Like the notes which the angels love to hear, 

And the whirling spheres prolong. 
'Twas Venus who sang to her sister sphere, 

And a poet heard the song. 



" Alone in my splendour, 

The queen of a train 
Of thousands, that render 

Their homage in vain; 
Unmatched through the mazes 

Of beauty I fly. 
And waken the praises 

Of earth and the sky. 



" Through the halls of the even. 

When gaily I roam. 
The children of heaven 

Look out from their home ; 



178 POETICAL REMAINS. 

When eastward returning, 
I herald the day, 

The sons of the morning 
Attend my bright way. 



III. 



" Earth heaves up her mountains 

For a glance of mine eye, 
And smiles through her fountains, 

When my chariot is nigh. 
Low moaneth the river, 

As I sink to the west, 
And my image forever 

Lies hid in his breast. 



IV. 



" The children of beauty. 

Below and above, 
In the light of my coming. 

Glance backward in love. 
Yet lone in my splendour, 

Too lonely I reign, 
'Mid the thousands that render 

Their homage in vain." 



POETICAL REMAINS. j-j-g 

Thus sweetly sung that beauteous sphere, 

And the echoes gently died ; 
And silence' self held a listening ear, 

While the sister orb replied : 



" All lonely thou rovest, 

'Mid the many that smile. 
Since the one that thou lovest, 

Is absent the while. 
The mountain, the river, 

The sons of the sky. 
Not faithful forever 

Will smile in thine eye. 



" Soon all will be scattered. 

That worshipped before ; 
And the many that flattered. 

Will flatter no more. 
Then, wanderings all over. 

Thou wilt sink to thy rest. 
On the breast of thy lover. 

The wave of the west." 
1842. 



ip 



POETICAL REMAINS. 

VERSES 

ON THE DRYING OF THE ELBE.* 



Beneath the hiding waves of time 

Are secrets, graven deep, 
Of buried joy and wo and crime, 

And those who see shall weep. 

In Hfe's gay morn secure we ride, 

With breeze and prospect fair ; 
Oh ! could we look beneath the tide, 

And read the history there ! 

In fancy's fairest tints arrayed, 

The sunlit billows glow, 
While blasted hearts and hopes decayed 

In darkness sleep below. 

We walk o'er graves — the dust we tread 

Hath many a tale of fear ; 
The fadeless footsteps of the dead, 

In all our paths appear. 

* " The heat of the summer having dried up the waters of the 
Elbe, a stone was discovered in its bed, bearing a date 200 years 
previous, and this inscription — ' When the people saw me first, 
they wept ; when they see me again, they shall weep yet more.' " 



POETICAL REMAINS. JQI 

The ceaseless whirl of life goes on, 

And heartless nature blooms. 
While countless generations gone 

Have strewed the world with tombs. 

Earth hath no stone, but on it set 

Death's dreadful seal appears ; 
And scarce a clod, but hath been wet 

With human blood and tears. 

No desert wild, nor cavern lone. 

Nor bleak, nor burning sky, 
But oft hath heard the sufferer's groan. 

And seen the wretched die. 

The cooHng breeze its freshness brings 

From sighs that sorrow gave ; 
And beauty's favourite rose-bud springs 

From Friendship's lowly grave. 

Oh ! why should nature smile so fair. 

And put such glories on. 
When her deep heart conceals despair, 

And her young joys are gone ? 
16 



jg2 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Could we but roll the waves of time 
Back to their hidden spring, 

As on that coming day sublime, 
When the last trump shall ring ; 

When ocean, through his deep domain, 
Shall hear the summons dread, 

And every mountain, stream, and plain. 
Send forth their thronging dead ; 

Could we those billows backward roll. 
And learn the scenes below. 

And read, as on a rocky scroll, 
The tale of human wo ; 

And on the hard and bloody stone, 
Man's mournful history trace, 

And hear in one concentred groan, 
The wailings of a race ; 

That awful sight with fear would tear 
And wring a heart of lead, 

That awful shriek of deep despair 
Would wake the sleeping dead ! 
1842. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



183 



TO***. 

A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. 

'Tis ever thus ! a face of light, 
Like thine, ! Elbe, conceals 

Secrets, which not to careless sight 
The trusting heart reveals. 

As gems are hid in caverns lone, 
And flowers in deserts dwell ; 

The dearest dreams the heart hath known, 
The tongue may never tell. 

Not laughing eye, nor glowing cheek, 

Nor brow of careless show, 
Nor notes of seeming mirth bespeak 

The thoughts that dwell below. 

I know where lies a gentle heart. 

Whose sunny glances play, 
Bright as the beams, ! Elbe, that dart 

Amid thy silvery spray. 



2Q4 POETICAL REMAINS. 

O ! could I, through those soul-lit eyes, 
Pierce to their fountain blest, 

And read the record deep that lies, 
Engraven on the breast ; 

No penance were too hard to bear. 

That hidden page to see ; 
And if my name were written there, 

'T were joy enough for me ! 
1842, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



185 



DANCING. 



FROM A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A LADY. 



But dancing ! oh, I love, 1 love to see 
The motion light of any thing that's free ! 
The bird mounts upward on exulting wing ; 
The brook leaps laughing from its crystal spring ; 
The wind, the sunbeam, and e'en hoary ocean, 
Play round the free world with a graceful motion. 
Love I not dancing ? Love I not to see 
A graceful form in wavy motion free 1 
Have I not seen bright thoughts, like fairies, trip 
Round her blue eye and o'er her rosy lip. 
And o'er the varying features dancing go. 
To the soft music of a voice, whose flow 
Rose like a lake's sweet song in lonely place, 
Singing to moonbeams playing on its face ? 
But not the old oak rears his crest on high. 
Merely to wave his tresses in the sky ;. 
Else were he but a dandy 'mong the trees, 
Bowing his head and smiling in the breeze. 
16* 



186 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Through yielding air the graceful eagle springs, 
Yet aims he higher than to show his wings ; 
Some worthy foe provokes his warrior eye, 
Or hunger prompts, or starving children cry. 
The brook that sings and dances on its way. 
Spreads round its course rich flowers and harvests 

gay; 

And not a blushing daughter of the spring. 

But hides some charm to quell disease's sting. 

* Nature has charms' in her immortal face, 

Her children smile — her children move with grace ; 

E'en angels robe themselves in heavenly dyes, 

And graceful ride on missions through the skies. 

Yet nature spreads her thousand smiles abroad 

For ends more noble than to deck the sod ; 

And angels move, but to obey their God. 

O ! I have seem — what 'twas not safe to see — 

A face of light, a beauteous form and free, 

And known, beneath, a mind of noblest mould. 

Like priceless gem in jasper set or gold. 

And I have heard — what dangerous 'twas to hear — 

A low sweet voice, like music soft and clear, 

Freighted with thoughts all bright and warm, that 

start 
From the pure chambers of a gentle heart. 



POETICAL REMAINS. j g-y 

And I have dreamed — though madness 'twas to 

dream 
In the warm contact of so bright a theme — 
Of the deep treasure of that fountain blest, 
Whose sacred source is woman's peaceful breast; 
Whence smiles of light — while ]:)rosperou3 breezes 

blow, 
And joyous words and streams of kindness flow; 
But when dread sorrow glooms our wintry skies, 
Inspiring hopes and notes of courage rise. 

Thus have I dreamed, 'till round celestial light 
Disclosed bright visions veiled to mortal sight ; 
And I beheld a beauteous form, that wore 
The well-known smile I oft had seen before. 
Thus let me dream — of one ordained to be 
A fountain of high hopes and sympathy ; 
A joy to heighten every joy we know, 
A guardian angel in an hour of wo ; 
A spirit fair, a being bright and warm 
With a high soul — not a mere gilded form 
Or fair automaton, to move by art, 
Needing or using neither head nor heart ; 
Graceful to lead where butterflies excel, 
And knave and coxcomb can do just as well ! 
* # * * # 



jQQ POETICAL REMAINS. 

We walk upon a world, o'ershadowed high 
With the broad concave of the glorious sky, 
Spread out to catch the feeblest sounds that fly, 
And send them thundering back, 'till you and I 
Shall hear our neighbour's softest whispered sigh. 
Which he had thought in his own heart did die. 
We move amid an atmosphere, which, stirred 
With the soft wing of scarcely whispered word. 
Rolls on its echoes, till the world has heard. 
What he had hoped in silence was interred ! 
* # # * # 

1842. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 139 



And think'st thou that I love thee not, 

Or love thee with but half a heart ? 
And have these eyes their skill forgot 

The secret of the soul to impart ? 
And hath no glance of kindness shown, 

Whence that warm fountain's source may be, 
Whose music mounts in every tone. 

To speak the love I've felt for thee ? 

And hast thou seen no sudden light 

Upon this brow, when thou wert near — 
No rising smile of deep delight, 

To whisper that thou wert most dear ? 
Then hath this brow essayed in vain, 

A mirror of my heart to be ; 
And smiles alone may ne'er explain 

The hidden love I've felt for thee. 

In courtlier phrase the coxcomb swears. 
Than the full heart of love can boast ; 

More glib the tongue the less it bears — 
The shallow streamlet chatters most ; 



J 90 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Ne'er toss'd on careless lips have been 
The blushing thoughts that dearest be. 

E'en where the life-blood ghdes unseen, 
Sleeps the deep love I've felt for thee ! 

A cheek that knows no blush, conceals 

A heart unswayed by love's control ; 
And the loud flowing tongue reveals 

The shallow current of the soul. 
Oh, far too deep for tongue or eyes 

To express to stranger ear or e'e. 
In the soul's holiest chamber lies 

The deathless love I've felt for thee ! 
1843. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



191 



A PINDARIC ODE. 



TO 



* * Hi 



A FRAGMENT. 



Music is sorrow's knell ! 
And through the halls, where bright lamps shine, 

And glancing eyes their secrets tell, 
Beauty arrays her charms divine. 

Like waves the graceful dancers go, 

And rosy cheek and brow of snow, 
And nimble foot and form of light, 

'Neath music's deep commanding swell. 
Sparkle and sport in circles bright. 
Like flowers that play through a summer night. 

With the singing breeze of a fairy dell. 



II. 



Saw ye the smile of the parting day. 
O'er the earth its splendour throwing 1 

She hath passed like a sunbeam on her way, 
And a hundred cheeks are glowing. 



192 POETICAL REMAINS. 

The breeze of the mountain passed over the plain, 

And the cedars in homage are bending; 
Bright Cynthia looked down with a smile on the 
main, 

And upward the billows are tending. 
In the vale of Cashmere where the flowers are 
bright, 

The rose is fair to see ; 
On Beauty I gazed 'mid the Halls of Light, 

And a lovely queen was she ! 



III. 

With head erect and nostril wide, 

And hoof that proudly spurns the plain, 
With heart of fire and eye of pride, 

The gallant steed from his stall hath hied 
To lead a gallant train. 
For a maiden fair goes forth to ride, 

A maid that knows to hold the rein. 
The ploughman hath checked the dusty team. 

And turns his head to see ; 
The milkmaid stops the snowy stream, 
The children are out with a merry scream, 
And the dogs are wild with glee ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 1 93 

Like a flood from the steep, 
With a whirlwind leap, 
Comes a train o'er the hill-top high. 
And the streamers sweep 
Through the valley deep. 
Like the banners of the sky. 
In sacred mount, when nymphs convene, 
Diana at their head is seen 

The first in dance and song ; 
And when like phantom clouds they go, 

To sport amid the vales below, 
She leads their choir along. 



1843. 



17 



194 POETICAL REMAINS. 



IS REPLY TO SOME VEBSES ACCOMPANTIS^G A BRACELET OF HAIR. 

A charm to bind me thine in weal, 

To seal me thine in wo — 
'Tis all too late ; nor charm nor seal 

This heart henceforth may know. 

Its fate is fixed ; a spell unseen 

Sleeps in its holiest cell ; 
No talisman hath power, I ween, 

To bind or break that spell. 

Graven on its secret tablets deep, 

Is the vow to thee I gave ; 
That record on this heart shall sleep 

Unaltered in the grave. 

No more may smile, nor bursting tear. 

Nor brow of light or gloom. 
Reach the fair image buried here, 

And sacred to the tomb. 



POETICAL REMAINS. J 95 

Though momentary clouds may rise, 

And o'er the surface blow, 
Yet faith shall wait for brighter skies. 

In peaceful caves below. 

Oh ! could I tear the veil aside, 

And give thine eyes to see, 
Where faith hath sought that vow to hide, 

She spoke e'erwhile to thee. 

Could'st thou behold the heart where sleeps 

Embalmed thine image fair, 
And know the deathless love that keeps 

That image fadeless there, 

Not careless word, nor thoughtless jest, 

Nor seeming coldness more 
Could wake a doubt within thy breast. 

Or cloud thy brightness o'er. 
1843. 



196 POETICAL REMAINS. 



Go ask the Zephyr, why he holds so dear 
His borrowed sweets, e'en when the rose is dead; 

Ask Echo, why the hills still love to hear 
Her mimic voice, when music's self is fled ; 

Ask twilight earth, why on her bosom sleeps 

The sun's last smile, when he can smile no more; 

Ask memory, why in holiest cell she keeps 

The hopes of youth, when youth and hope are o'er ; 

Ask thine own heart, why treasures lost assume 
A worth unknown in fortune's happier hour ; 

Why love is mightiest w^eeping o'er a tomb ; 
Why unknown sweets embalm the faded flower. 

Then know why aught that wakes a dream of thee, 
Is dearer now than all the world to me. 
1843. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



197 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

In the budding of thy beauty, 
In the dawning of thy day, 

In the vestibule of being, 

Dear one ! thou wert called away, 

From a mother's soft caressing. 
From that mother's heart distrest, 

From a happy father's blessing. 
From that father's bleeding breast, 

To thine everlasting slumber. 
To the grave's encircling love. 

To the fadeless bowers of heaven, 
To the cherub bands above. 

In thy breathless slumber lying, 
Like a folded flower at rest, 

Heard'st thou not thy mother sighing 
For the gem that left her breast ? 
17* 



198 POETICAL REMAINS. 

In thy robes of glory beaming, 
New-born spirit of the skies, 

Saw'st thou not the tear-drop streaming 
From thy mother's sleepless eyes ? 

As a sunbeam on the fountain, 

Bright and transient was thy stay ; 

As the mist upon the mountain, 
Early thou hast past away. 

So a snow-drop sinks in silence, 
Pure from its celestial birth ; 

So a snow-drop, in the summer. 

Mounts on sunbeams from the earth. 



Like a note of music wafted 
From the angelic lyres on high. 

Like a rosebud earthward straying 
From the gardens of the sky ; 

As a heavenly vision blending, 

With the shades where mortals pine, 

As a blissful dream descending 
From the temple's inner shrine; 



POETICAL REMAINS. ^99 

Glowing in immortal beauty, 
Thou upon our path did'st light — 

Leaving but remembered sweetness, 
Thou hast fled our aching sight. 

To these hearts a season given. 
Thou did'st stir their fount of love, 

Then resought thy native heaven, 
Bearing the full tide above. 

Not in vain thine earthly visit. 

Heavenly cherub in disguise ; 
Led by thee our hearts shall venture 

To the portals of the skies. 
1843. 



200 POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO HER OF WHOM IT IS TRUE. 

I've seen her when her brow was bright, 

And pure as evening's sky, 
And the full soul's unclouded light 

Blazed from the sparkling eye. 
Such sight not earth could yield again, 

With rapture pure as this ; 
One glance of love was dearer then. 

Than years of common bliss ! 

I've seen her when her cheek did fade. 

And tear-drops dimmed her eye ; 
And on her brow was sorrow's shade. 

And in her breast a sigh. 
Oh ! then, to sit in silence near, 

Were joy enough for me ; 
For e'en her tears are far more dear. 

Than others' smiles may be ! 
1843. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 201 



TO M. B. J.* 

I read thy lay, 
And the sad music of thy mournful song 
Within this heart's deep caves was echoed long, 

O, M. B. J. ! 
And in my spirit's ear, I heard once more 
A strain of wo, which I had heard before. 

Whence came that lay? 
In my old scrap-book I have found the strain, 
Which thy lone grief hath poured abroad again, 

O, M. B. J. ! 
And I would learn, what heart hath wept its wo. 
So like my scrap-book five long years ago. 
1843. 

* Upon some verses printed, under that signature, in a news- 
paper. 



202 POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO MARGARET M * * * * * 

Maggie 1 from thy brow so bright, 
And those dancing eyes of thine, 
Glows a young heart's happy Hght, 
Glancing beams of Hope divine. 
In young fancy's charms arrayed, 
Every object now is gay : 
Maggie, all those charms must fade — 
Earthly charms must fade away. 
Turn thine eyes where pleasures shine. 
Everlasting through the gloom : 
Everlasting joys be thine, 
Rising, deathless, from the tomb ! 
1843. 



FRAGMENT. 



David was born a genuine poet ; 

But the old de'il himself don't know it, 

And the young de'il himself can't show it ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 203 



SONNETS 



THE SERENADE. 

Beneath a bower, where poplar branches long, 
Embracing, wove seclusion round the abode 
Of Hermit sage, what time the full moon rode, 

'Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along, 

Rose on the listening ear a plaintive song, 
Sweet as the harmony of an angel's lyre, 
And soft as sweet, breathed heavenward from a 
choir 

Of beauty, hid the encircling shades among. 

Of mysteries deep I ween that sage had dreamed, 
Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands, to hear 
The mystic notes of nature's anthem clear. 

Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly 
deemed. 
'Tis ever thus, as to that sage it seemed, 
'Tis beauty makes the dreams of wisdom dear ! 
1843. 



204 POETICAL REMAINS. 



II. 

BEAR ON. 

Kind nature hath a sympathising tone 

For every mood of human joy or pain. 

Sad heart from humblest flower may courage 
gain, 
Daring the storm with smiHng brow alone. 
The brave old oak, around whose head have blown 

A hundred winters, still maintains his place ; 

The hoary cliff' uproars his storm-scarred face, 
Though round his base the wrecks of time are 

strown ; 
The stars shine on as at their birth they shone ; 

The glorious sun runs his immortal race. 
Faint spirit ! bowed 'neath life's o'erburdening ills. 

Lift up thine eye to heaven's eternal scope ! 
Look out upon the everlasting hills. 

And see a firm foundation still for Hope ! 
1843. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



205 



in. 

REJOICE. 

The world is full of joy. The sweet rose flings 

Her fragrance out to invite the zephyr's kiss ; 

The morning lark, in wantonness of bliss, 
To meet the sun with song of welcome springs ; 
The little brook to her own motion sings ; 

The storm peals out; down comes the dancing 
rain ; 

The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plain, 
And with high glee the echoing valley rings ; 
The wild wind whistles in his desert caves ; 

The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky ; 
The old green wood his lusty branches waves ; 

Huge ocean shakes his foamy crest on high ; 
Earth springs exulting in her fadeless prime, 
And the glad sun rolls on his course sublime ! 
1843. 



18 



206 POETICAL REMAINS. 



IV. 

THE SMILE. 

I looked on Beauty, when the sudden light 
Of intellect, and generous feeling high, 
Blazed on the cheek and lightened in the eye, 

And genius flashed from every feature bright. 

I looked on Beauty, when a wild delight 

Laughed from beneath her silken lashes fair. 
And mirth, awaking from his rosy lair, 

Led forth his dimples like the waves of night, 
When the full heaven of stars is shining there. 
But not the flash of genius may compare, 

Nor the gay summer of the radiant cheek. 
With the soft smile of twilight sweetness rare 
On Beauty's brow, which thoughts of kindness 
wear. 

When the eye looks more than the tongue may 
speak. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 397 



TO E. D. G. 

Dear wandering Ellee, five long nights and days 
Have dragged their slow and tedious length along, 
Since last I heard the music of thy tongue, 

Or met thy smile, or felt the gentle rays 

Of those dear eyes, whose softest glance allays 
Sad thoughts of fear, and makes my spirit strong. 
Like the old bard and blind, who sent his song 

Complaining to the glorious orb of day. 

E'en in this gloom of loneHness, a lay 

I wake to thee, my light ! unseen too long. 

And claim thy swift return, and blame the throng 

Of circumstance, that keeps thee thus away. 
Dear as the light to orbs long blind, shall be 
The first bright ray thine eyes shall send to me ! 
1844. 



208 POETICAL REMAINS. 



VI. 

T O E. D. G. 

Ellee ! the sky is dark ; and cold and drear 

The night-wind groans through many a frozen 

bough ; 
Pity the wretch who homeless wanders now, 

No light to guide him, and no friend to cheer. 

While the full world holds on its deaf career, 

And thoughtless wassail thinks the hours too fast, 
He lonely struggles with the stormy blast. 

Or stumbling, makes the icy ground his bier. 
Such, Ellee, I, if thou should'st leave my side, 

A wanderer lonely in a frozen night. 
The life of life henceforth to me denied, 

My path were darkness, 'mid the noonday light. 
Earth were too poor to yield a spot so blest, 
Where, reft of thee, this heart might be at rest. 
1845. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 209 



VII. 

WORDSWORTH. 



Poet of the thoughtful brow ! far-sighted seer ! 
Whose gifted eye, on mountain, peak, and plain, 
The eternal heavens and never sleeping main, 

Mysterious writings saw, and read with fear. 

In the deep silence of the night, thine ear 
Heard from the earth a still sad music rise, 
Nor less the anthem caught, that midnight skies 

Pour through the soul from each rejoicing sphere. 
But most thou lov'st, with solemn steps, to take 

Down through the awful chambers of the soul 

Thy dreadful way, and hear the billows roll 
Of that deep ocean, whose far thunders break 
Upon the everlasting shores, and wake 

Echoes that wiser make whom they control. 
1845. 

18* 



210 POETICAL REMAINS. 



VIII. 

WORDSWORTH. 
2. 

Thy song sublime the tinkHng charms disdains 
And painted trappings of the gaudy muse, 
And in such dress as truth and nature use, 

Majestic mounts in high Miltonic strains, 

And pours its strength along the ethereal plains 
Solemn and grand, as when the hills reply 
To the full chorus of a stormy sky, 

Or ocean round his rock-bound shores complains. 

Yet not the highest heaven, amid the " choir 
Of shouting angels and the empyreal thrones," 

Nor louder Erebus, nor chaos old, 

Thy chiefest haunt ; but with sublimer tones. 

Through the dark caverns of the mind are rolled 

The mighty thunders of thy master lyre. 
1845. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 211 



AN INFANT'S EPISTLE. 

Wee Ellee G. thanks auntie A. 
For the nice present left to-day, 
And hopes, ere long, to call and tell 
How snug it fits, how warm and well. 

Her little head, while round and on it, 
Rest the soft folds of auntie's bonnet. 
Warm thoughts shall hold, for many a day, 
Of the kind gift of auntie A. 

Die vitcB 22. 

Anno Domini, 1844. 



212 POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO MY WIFE. 
DEC. 25, 1844. 

Presents enough to suit my mind 

For all the rest I see, 
Bat gift to please my taste I find 

None, dearest, fit for thee. 

Not earthly gift could e'er repay 

The joy thou art to me. 
Nor gem of purest flame betray 

The love I bear to thee. 

Where golden gifts too poor would shine. 
Their want expressive be : 

No gift I need, while thou art mine. 
Myself, I give to thee. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 213 



IMPROMPTU. 



TO S. M. G. 



Scarce arrived at bright sixteen, 
Unsubdued by sorrows grim, 
Susie slips along between 
Youngster wild and maiden prim. 
Mingled with her folHes gay, 
Graver notes begin to rise ; 
In her brightness shadows play, 
Like the hues of summer skies. 
Busy Time begins to blight 
Early dreams and prospects clear ; 
Restless Time brings on the night- 
Trials, w^oman's lot, are near. 
1845. 



214 POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO MRS. BOSE. 



A KEMOIfSTBANCE. 



Fair Mrs. Bose 

She keepeth close, 
Yet wide her kindness reaches ; 

Through wet and cold 

Comes Charley bold, 
Well packed with grapes and peaches. 



II. 



When she is nigh. 

Her happy eye 
A beam to the dark cloud lendeth ; 

And when away, 

A blessed ray 
In the blushing peach she sendeth. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 215 

III. 

Her words, that flow 
In music low, 

Are drowned when the storm-wind blusters ; 
Yet kind words fly- 
To friends near by. 

Disguised in juicy clusters. 



IV. 



Ah ! Mrs. Bose, 
She keeps too close. 

Though far her kindness reaches — 
That joyous smile 
Of the Emerald Isle 

Is better than grapes and peaches. 
1847. 



210 POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO A LADY. 

trPON- RECEIVIIfG A PAIR OF EMBROIDERED SLIPPERS. 

Fair fingers, for a poet's feet, 

Have woven honours rich and rare ; 

Poetic feet, as is most meet, 

Shall celebrate those fingers fair. 

Those fingers wrought on a plain illumed 
By the warm light of sunny eyes — 

What wonder if the landscape bloomed, 
Brisrht as the flowers of Eastern skies ! 

What wonder, if that landscape stole 
The grace and beauty beaming o'er. 

And the soft splendour of the whole, 
Glowed like a smile I've seen before ! 

Henceforth, where'er my footsteps stray, 
New charms shall flash a glory round ; 

My path, with blooming honours gay. 

Like summer's foot-prints deck the ground. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 3^7 

Like some great conqueror robed complete, 
I walk in gold and crimson sheen, 

Such wreaths resplendent on my feet, 
As round immortal brows have been. 

Were I a Pope — and who may know 

What wonders changeful time shall bear — 

What mortal but would kiss a toe, 
Robed in a dress so wondrous fair ! 

1847. 



19 



21 g POETICAL REMAINS. 



VALEDICTORY. 

WRITTEN FOR THE EXHIBITION OF HARRISBURG ACADEMY, 
JULY 20, 1847.* 

" Farewell !" what tongue the full meaning can 
tell, 
That is hid in that haunted word — Farewell ! 
The boy, who hath gone from his father's side 
To find how cold is the world and wide ; 
The lover, whom fate hath forced to fly. 
With a kiss, an embrace, and a long good-bye ; 
The bride, who hath lingered, yet chosen to go 
From her mother's home — for weal and for wo ; 
The exile, whose heart hath sighed its " adieu" 
To his native hills o'er the waters blue — 
Ah ! these have felt, what no tongue can tell, 
The wo that is hid in that word — Farewell ! 

But not always thus as a parting knell ; 
A note of joy is that word — Farewell. 

* See Memoir, page 141. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 219 

Have ye never seen on what joyful wings, 
From his long shut prison, the free bird springs ? 
Have ye never heard, from his heavenward flight, 
How he poured to his prison a glad good-night ? 
The captive who weeps in his weary cell, 
Will he sigh, when he says to that dungeon, Fare- 
well? 
Or the school-boy, whose cheek has grown pale in 

the toil 
Of his lonely task o'er the midnight oil. 
When vacation has come, with its sports and its 

rest, 
Will he part with his books with a sorrowful breast? 

Oh ye from whose bosoms youth's freshness hath 

parted, 
Ye know not the joys of the young and light 

hearted ! 
When the blood flows the freest, the world is the 

brightest, 
The laugh rings the loudest, the footstep is lightest; 
When the spirit, untamed by experience of evil. 
Like a bee 'mongst the roses, lives only to revel ; 
And the heart is away where the wild birds are 

singing, 
Where the sunfish are glacing, and the flowers are 

springing; 



220 POETICAL REMAINS. 

When the soul on its path its own brightness is 

casting, 
Oh! then hath life something too sweet to be 

lasting. 

Then, bound a captive to his books. 
The school-boy from his window looks 
On the sunny fields where the zephyrs play, 
And longs to wander, free as they. 
He sees the Old River go merrily by, 
He hears the song of birds in the sky. 
And while life is mounting through his veins, 
He feels like a prisoner loaded with chains. 
His lessons are dull, and the days glide slow. 
And the weeks with a lazy motion go, 
'Till the term runs out, and he shouts with glee — 
" Vacation has come, and I am free !" 



Vacation has come ; and now, boys, will you sigh 
To say to your books, for a season, good-bye ? 
Ye who with Caesar have made the campaign, 
And fought his hard battles all over again. 
What say you to grant a short truce to his 

slaughters. 
And let him spend August in winter quarters? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 221 

And ye who with Virgil so often have sighed, 
Where Troy fed the flames or Creusa died ; 
Can ye spare good Mneas a season, to go 
To the shades of his father and Dido below ? 

And ye soldiers of Cyrus, who saw his defeat, 
And with Xenophon's Ten Thousand made good 

your retreat. 
Like the army you marched with, when safe from 

its foes, 
You may lay down your arms, and on laurels 

repose. 
But the band that is struggling so far in the rear, 
'Tis but a short truce that is granted you here ; 
The foe is before you, and many a fight, 
Long marches by day, and long watches by night. 

And ye, who with Livy have stood by the tide. 
That mirrored great Rome in her seven-hilled pride, 
And saw, as the ages went by in their flight. 
How the world was absorbed in her over-grown 

might ; 
Like the earth, you may rest from her triumphs at 

last. 
For your toil, Hke the reign of her terror, is past. 
19* 



222 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Ye, knights of the blackboard, accustomed to 
ponder 
The mysteries of Davies and awful Legendre, 
May part with your chalk and your problems pro- 
found, 
And, like Newton, make figures awhile on the 

ground. 
Ye Natural Philosophers, full of abstractions, 
Of forces and courses, repulsions, attractions. 
Your fine-jointed theories give over to batter. 
And study a season in contact with matter. 
The breezes will teach you Pneumatics forever, 
And Hydrauhcs enough you can get in the River ! 

Ye disciples of Gummere, who carry the chain, 
May rove without Jacob's staffs over the plain ; 
Protractors and compass aside you may lay, 
And freely the beauties of nature survey. 

And O! ye poor wretches, forever who hammer 
At the persons, and moods, and hard cases of 

grammar ; 
Who have sighed over mysteries made only to 

bother, 
And groaned interjections from one end to t'other ; 
Rejoice that your star at last mounts the ascendant. 
And you're in the " nominative case independent !" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 223 

But why need we mention each class in its 
order ? 

Let geographers study their own native border ; 

'Mongst the hills and sweet vales, where they wan- 
der so often, 

They'll find the best map in the world of old 
Dauphin. 

The historians may put up their books on their 
shelves, 
And enact a small history heroic themselves ; 
And the class in arithmetic close their review, 
And go into practice and fellowship too ! 

But why do we linger ? no parting sigh 
Disturbs the joy of our glad good-bye ! 
Good-bye to the books ! — the eternal books. 
That have stood in our paths with threatening looks, 
And haunted our ever-aching sight, 
From dawning day to dusky night ! 
Good-bye to the ring of the study-bell, 
Its morning chimes — ah, who can tell 
How oft they have thrilled through the heart of fun. 
And broken up games that were just begun ! 
Good-bye to lessons that split the head. 
Good-bye ! to the blackboard dark and dread ; 



224 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Good-bye! to Latin, Greek, and French, 
Good-bye ! to the recitation bench. 
Big * G's' the reward of studious zeal, 
Long * F's' like a whip for the dunce to feel, 
And * T's' that tardy tales will tell— 
We bid you all at last farewell ! 

And now, boys, we'll try how a new scheme 

will go, 
Our study gymnastics, our school room below ! 
"We'll work "Involution" upon a new rule. 
Nor need " Explanations" that come after school. 
Such summersets there we shall know how to turn — 
Politicians themselves may look on and learn. 
And many a winding and intricate feat. 
No lawyer in Harrisburg easy could beat. 
The swing and the ladder, the quoits and the glove; 
The jumping beneath, and the climbing above ; 
O! these are the lessons we'll study, nor fear 
But each shall earn ' G's' of the biggest sort here ! 
And then when the fervors of noon have gone by, 
Away to the sports of the river we'll hie ; 
And where Sol's evening splendours turn golden 

the tide, 
Our boats o'er the surface shall merrily glide ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 225 

Or plunging beneath the red billows that glow, 
We'll sport in the depths of their coolness below. 
And oft at the island, wdth angle and bait. 
While nibbles are plenty, with patience we'll wait ; 
Or at night, with a spear and torch blazing ahead, 
We'll startle the eels in their watery bed ! 
And then to the mountains we'll make a campaign, 
And the rabbits and wood-chucks shall mourn o'er 

their slain; 
The squirrels shall suffer a terrible rout, 
And no woodpecker dare from his hole to look out. 
We'll find where the apples are mellow to eat. 
Where the berries are thickest and earliest sweet, 
Where the peach soonest ripens, where melons are 

fine. 
And the clusters of wild grapes hang thick on the 

vine. 
And over the mountain, and valley, and plain. 
As we rove with the breezes new vigour we'll gain, 
And the health that hard study had stolen before, 
The sports of vacation shall fully restore. 
And stronger, and brighter, and fresher than ever, 
We'll come from the forest, the field, and the river, 
To meet our old books in the desks where they've 

lain. 
And grapple anew with hard study again. 



226 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



HORACE.— Book i. Ode xiii. 

Oh Lydia, when you thoughtless speak 

The praises of another, 
And praise his form and glowing cheek, 
Ah me ! this jealous heart is weak, 

Its bursting pain to smother ! 

Then reason drowned in passion's tide, 

And pale brow clothed in mourning, 
And down these cheeks the tears that glide. 
Betray the grief that fain would hide, 
In this sad bosom burning. 

I've wept to see thy gentle form 

In his too close embraces ; 
To see the track of passion's storm 
On that dear lip, where kisses warm 

Have left their burning traces. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 227 

Oh Lydia ! learn from me to dread 

Such love's inconstant fleetness, 
As thus a blighting print could spread 
O'er lips, where Venus' self had shed 
The essence of her sweetness. 

Thrice happy they, whose days consume 

In love's divine communion ; 
Whose constant faith secure shall bloom, 
'Till the dread summons of the tomb 

Dissolve the blissful union ! 
1842. 



228 POETICAL REMAINS. 



HORACE.— Book hi. Ode x. 

HORACE. 

While Lydia's heart was all my own, 

Nor dearer arms might try 
The circle of her graceful zone, 
Not Persia's monarch on his throne 
Was half so blest as I. 

LYDIA. 

Ere thy fond heart a warmer flame 
Had caught from Chloe's eye, 
While Lydia was the sweeter name, 
Not Rome's great mother, dear to fame, 
Was half so blest as I. 

HORACE. 

Now tuneful Chloe holds my heart 

In chords of harmony. 
Skilled in the power of music's art ; 
For whose dear sake with life to part, 

Were joy enough for me ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 229 

LYDIA. 

The youthful Calais claims me now 

In love's delightful yoke ; 
Calais, to save whose pearly brow, 
Full oft this head I'd gladly bow 

To death's severest stroke. 

HORACE. 

What if the fires of love return 

With all their ancient flame, 
If Chloe's eyes should cease to burn, 
And this sad heart again should learn 

To cherish Lydia's name ? 

LYDIA. 

Though he, as evening's star, is fair. 

And thou art like the wave, 
Fickle and fierce as stormy air. 
Thy lot in life I'd gladly share — 

Thy slumbers in the grave. 
1842. 



20 



230 POETICAL REMAINS. 



HORACE.— Book i. Ode xv. 

When homeward, o'er the Egean sea, 
The traitorous Paris bore his bride, 
Nereus, the god who rules the deep, 
Calmed his rude waves to peaceful sleep, 
While thus, the listening waves along, 
He poured subUme his prophet song : 

Ill-fated ! homeward thou hast led, 

Whom Greece shall seek across the flood, 
Sworn to immerse thy marriage bed, 

And Priam's ancient throne, in blood ! 
Alas ! upon the hard fought plain. 

What hosts must find their resting place ! 
Of mortal woes, a heavy train 

Thou lead'st to Troy's unhappy race. 
E'en now dread Pallas takes the field, 

And hastes to yoke her flaming car. 
While flashes round her gorgon shield, 

Tremendous in the coming war. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 331 

In vain, in love's protection bold, 

Thy hands shall deck thy flov^^ing hair, 
Or on thy peaceful harp of gold, 

Make music for the listening fair. 
In vain within thy halls concealed. 

Thou hop'st to shun the Grecian spear. 
Thou scap'st not thus the stormy field. 

Nor Ajax thundering in thy rear. 

Thy rosy cheek and forehead fair, 
In w^ar, no martial prize may gain ; 

And those soft locks, adorned with care. 
Must sweep at length in blood the plain. 

Lo ! where the angry warriors throng, 

Ulysses and the Pylian seer, 
And Teucer pours his hosts along. 

Crowding thy flight in wild career. 
But most, Tydides fierce demands 

Thy blood, through all the ranks of war, 
From whose huge spear and slaughtering hands 

Thy quaking limbs must bear thee far ; 
E'en as the stag in lowly vale. 

When howls the wolf, forgets to eat, 
And swift outstrips the mountain gale, 

With breathing soft, on flying feet ; 



232 POETICAL EEMAINS. 

Achilles' wrath awhile must stay 

The dreadful doom thy crimes require ;; 

But when appears the appointed day, 

Old Troy shall feed the Grecian fire ! 
1843. 



LESSING. 



THE GLOW-WORM. 



All unconscious of the light, 

That his presence shed. 
In a grove a glow-worm bright 

Made his grassy bed. 

Slyly crept his neighbour toad 

From her rotten moss ; 
And upon him, as he glowed. 

Venom shot across. 

" Ah ! what crime," the glow-worm cried, 
" Dost thou thus requite ?" 

" Ha !" the monster grim replied, 
" Why dost shine so bright ?" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



233 



LESSING, 



LIFE. 



Six days she blessed my side, 

Six days I loved and cherished ; 
The seventh, she grew pale and died, 

And my last hope forever perished. 
Still live I on, ordained to wait, 

With life enough to vegetate. 
Oh ! doomed a wretch, to whom by heaven 

A heart, with power to feel, is given 1 
Let warmth and blood desert this breast, 

From which the soul hath fled before ; 
Here, where I weep above her rest. 

Let welcome death my peace restore. 
What though my years should roll in gloom, 

'Till Nestor's age should frost my brow, 
Not older then I'd find the tomb, 

My heart and head are hoary now. 
Six days she blessed my side, 
Six days I lived, then died ! 
1847. 

20* 



234 POETICAL REMAINS. 



GOETHE. 



THE FISHER. 

To S. M. G. 

This lovely eve, in the lovely May, 
When the air is sweet and the roses gay, 
And beautiful things are all in one's way, 

I've made a little translation 
Of Goethe's Dutch of " The Fisherman's Glee,'' 
A proper song for Susie G., 
Almost as bright and sweet as she— 

And this is my Dedication. 

W. S. G. 
May 18, 1846. 

The water sighed, the water swelled, 

A fisher sat thereby ; 
Chilled to the heart, his hook he held, 

And gazed with patient eye. 
And as he sat, and as he gazed. 

The trembling waves withdrew ; 
And from the deep a maiden raised 

A dripping form to view. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 235 

She sang to him — she spake to him ; 

" Why lure my brood away, 
With human craft and human skill, 

To the deathly glow of day 1 
Ah ! could'st thou guess what pleasures sweet 

The little fishes know, 
Thou too would'st downward turn thy feet, 

And find true bliss below. 

" Loves not the moon and glorious sun 

In the crystal deeps to lave 1 
Hath not his face new glory won. 

Fresh breathing of the wave ? 
And tempt thee not the heavens that sleep 

In wave-transfigured blue ; 
And tempt thee not thine eyes, to leap 

Into the eternal dew 1" 

The water swelled, the water sighed, 

The surf swept o'er his feet ; 
A strong wish through his heart replied, 

As when true lovers meet. 
She spake to him, she sang to him, 

His earthly fate was o'er ; 
Half drew she him, half yielded he. 

And ne'er was heard of more ! 

1846. 



236 POETICAL REMAINS. 



GOETHE. 

THE magician's APPRENTICE. 

So the old wizard's gone, for certain, 

And I rule the house to-day ; 
Now I'll step behind the curtain, 

And his goblins shall obey. 
All his magic tricks, observant, 

I have learned right well to do ; 
And with the aid of a spirit servant, 
Can perform high wonders too. 
Scamper! Scamper! 
Fast and faster. 
For your master, 
Till there goeth 
Such a tide as naught can hamper, 
And the bath-tub overfloweth. 

Now, old Broom ! step forth so stately, 
Robe thyself in tatters gay — 

Thou hast served me long, and greatly 
Must I tax thy speed to-day. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 337 

Stand on two legs strong and tight, Sir, 

Head and hands are easily got ; 
Now thou'rt ready — off like light, Sir, 
Scamper with the water-pot ! 

Scamper! Scamper! 

Fast and faster. 

For thy master. 

Till there goeth 
Such a tide as naught can hamper. 
And the bath-tub overfloweth. 

See ! how down the bank he's springing. 

Quickly he has reached the stream ; 
Back, the flashing water bringing. 

Comes he like the lightning's beam ! 
Yet a second trip — how steady 
In the bath the water grows ! 
How the rising wave already 
Every trough and tub o'erflows ! 
Tarry ! Tarry ! 
We have got here 
Of cold water 
Half the river ! 
Ah, I see it ! Holy Mary ! 
I have lost the word forever ! 



23B POETICAL REMAINS. 

Oh ! the word to make him tarry, 

And his former shape restore ! 
How he loves to run and carry ! 

Were he but a Broom once more ! 
Torrents new and never ceasing 

Still he hastes to bring and pour ; 
Countless billows, still increasing, 
Round and o'er me rush and roar ! 
No, no longer 
This shall please him, 
I will seize him. 
Stop this gaming ! 
Oh ! what terrors new and stronger — 
Fiendish face and eyes all flaming ! 

Oh ! thou offspring of a devil ! 

Shall the entire house be drowned ? 
See ! the wave mounts o'er the level 

Of the sills, and sweeps around. 
Broom, forever cursed and hateful, 

Deaf to every just request. 
Stupid stick of wood ungrateful, 
Stand an instant still and rest ! 
Never, never 
Will he stay him ! . 
Then I'll lay him 
Flat and flatter ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 239 

And with this sharp axe I'll sever 
His old head, and end the matter ! 



See ! he comes more full than ever ! 

'Tis the instant to pursue him — 
Now, oh goblin, down forever ; 

Crashing goes the sharp edge through him. 
Bravely done ! one fair feat over ! 
See ! his body's split in twain ! 
Now once more my hopes recover, 
And I freely breathe again. 
Storm and thunder ! 
Fragments parted, 
Both have started 
Slave-like driven, 
Sound and swift, oh hopeless blunder ! 
Help me ! all ye powers of heaven ! 

How they run ! now faster, hotter, 

Through the halls, and down the stairs. 
What an everlasting water ! 

Lord and master ! hear my prayers ! 
Ah ! he comes to stay the evil — 

Master, awful is the need ! 
Easy 'tis to raise the devil. 

But a harder task to lead ! . 



240 POETICAL REMAINS. 

" Besom ! Besom ! 

To thy corner, 

And thy former 

Shape be taken ; 
For a sprite so fierce and gleesome, 
Only Masters should awaken." 
1846. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 241 



SCHILLER. 



HONOUR TO WOMAN. 



Honour to woman ! She twineth the flowers 
Of heaven itself, round this dull life of ours, 

And weaveth in beauty love's exquisite band ; 
And veiling her charms, with a deathless devotion. 
She feedeth the flame of each sacred emotion, 

With heart ever faithful, and holiest hand. 

Ever from truth's boundaries breaking, 

Man's rude strength delights to sweep ; 
Restless thoughts their dim flight taking 

Into passion's stormy deep. 
Ever at the distant grasping. 

On his heart no Sabbath beams, 
'Mid the starry circles clasping 

The fair image of his dreams. 

But with the enchantment of magical glances. 
Woman, the fugitive, homeward entrances, 
21 



242 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Charming him back to the present again. 
In the cot of the mother, secluded and lowly, 
Lives the fair child of nature, where nature is holy, 

And contentment and purity reign. 

Struggling on, with efforts crushing 

All before him as he goes, 
Wild through life's strong tempest rushing, 

Man nor peace nor respite knows. 
What he builds soon overthrowing. 

Lasting joy he ne'er can gain ; 
Head of Hydra ever growing 

Where a Hydra's head was slain. 

But to woman, whose heart in calm pleasure 

reposes, 
'Tis a joy round her pathway to cherish the roses. 
And the bloom of a moment, though dying, is 

dear ; 
In her circle so narrow, more happiness earning, 
And richer than man in the empire of learning, 
Or even in poesy's infinite sphere. 

Strong, and proud, and self-relying, 
Man's cold bosom ne'er can prove 

Bliss of hearts together flying, 
In the blessed heaven of love. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 243 

Knows he not the exchange of feeling, 
Nor the warm tears bursting o'er ; 

Life's rough toil his spirit steeling, 
Harder even than before. 



But e'en as the string, that so lightly was shaken, 
From the soft wing of zephyr a sad note hath 
taken. 
So sighs her sweet spirit in tenderness too. 
From the semblance of evil, deep anguish she'll 

borrow, 
And her delicate bosom heave upward in sorrow. 
And her eye beam with pearl-drops of heavenly 
dew. 



In the realm where man is lord. 

Might o'er right in terror reigns ; 
Here the Scythian draws his sword, 

And the Persian bows in chains. 
Here, involved in horrid fray. 

Rage the passions wild and dread ; 
And contention rules the day, 

While the graces long have fled. 



244 POETICAL REMAINS. 

But with a sweet power, that nothing withstandeth, 
Fair woman the wide reahn of manners com- 
mandeth, 
And persuadeth contention to struggle no more. 
To the spirits of discord she teacheth communion. 
And leadeth in loving perpetual union, 

Whatever was sundered and hostile before. 
1846. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



245 



SCHILLER. 



THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH. 

" Take the world and divide it," cried Jove from 
his heaven 

To man, " for I grant it to you ; 
To you and your heirs in fee simple 'tis given, 

Only share it as brothers should do." 

With the old and the young, what a scramble 
was there. 

Whilst every one seized what he could ; 
The farmer, he claimed the rich crops for his share, 

And the squire, the game of the wood. 

The merchant in haste to his storehouses hied, 

The priest to his ruby red wine ; 
The king every thoroughfare fastened, and cried, 

" The toll and the tariff are mine." 
21* 



246 POETICAL REMAINS. 

All late, when the work of division was done, 

From afar came the poet at last ; 
But nothing remained for the negligent one, 

Every thing to its owner had passed. 

" Ah me ! and shall I who have loved thee the best, 

Shall I be forgotten alone ?" 
Thus burst his loud grief in complaint from his 
breast, 

As he fell before Jupiter's throne. 

"If afar in the regions of dreams thou hast 
strayed," 
Said the god, " do not murmur at me ; 
Where wert thou concealed when division was 
made?" 
" I was," said the poet, " with thee ! 

" Mine eyes on thy glory were fixed in delight. 
Mine ear drank the music of heaven; 

Oh, pardon the soul that, entranced by thy light, 
Hath lost what the earth would have given." 

"What then," said the god, "since the world is all 
gone. 
Field or forest belong not to me ; 
Wilt dwell in my heaven ? then only come on. 
Its gates shall be open to thee !" 
1846. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 247 



KORNER. 



MY FATHERLAND. 



Where is the Poet's Fatherland ? 

Where noble souls on fire are glowing, 
Where flowers for beauty's brow are blowing, 
Where strong hearts with warm zeal o'erflow- 

Round every holy altar stand — 
There was my Fatherland ! 



How fares the Poet's Fatherland ? 

Now, o'er her sons, in death low lying. 
She sits in foreign shackles sighing. 
Once with her oaks in glory vieing. 
The land of Germans, Freedom's strand — 

So fares my Fatherland ! 



248 POETICAL REMAINS. 

Why weeps the Poet's Fatherland ? 

That while the tyrant's wrath is waking, 
The princes of her realms are quaking, 
Their holiest words forgetful breaking, 
And none to hear her loud demand — 

Thus sighs my Fatherland ! 

Whom calls the Poet's Fatherland ? 

She calls to gods that answer never, 
While her last hopes the lightnings shiver ; 
She calls for strong arms to deliver, 
For freedom and the avenger's hand — 

Thus calls my Fatherland ! 

What wants the Poet's Fatherland ? 

She wants the chains of slavery riven, 
The blood-hound from her boundaries driven, 
And freedom to her free sons given, 
Or a free bed beneath the sand — 

This wants my Fatherland ! 

What hopes the Poet's Fatherland ? 
By justice yet not all forsaken. 
She hopes her sons shall yet awaken, 
And vengeance on her foes be taken, 
By the eternal God's command — 

So hopes my Fatherland ! 
1847. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 249 



UHLAND. 



THE BOY OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

My home is in the mountain high, 
Beneath my feet your castles He ; 
We catch the bright sun's earUest light, 
And latest lose his beams at night — 
I am the boy of the mountain. 

Here in the wild stream's native cave. 
Fresh from the rock I quaff the wave ; 
All gaily bursts the current free, 
I catch it in my arms with glee — 

I am the boy of the mountain ! 

The mountain is my chosen home, 
Round its strong walls the tempests roam, 
Where north and south their thunders pour, 
My song is heard above their roar — 
I am the boy of the mountain ! 



250 POETICAL REMAINS. 

The lightnings 'neath my feet I view, 
I stand amid the eternal blue ; 
I know the spot and love it best, 
My father's home in quiet rest — 

I am the boy of the mountain ! 

And when the alarum sounds afar. 
Each peak shall blaze the sign of war ; 
Then down to join the martial throng, 
I'll swing my sword and raise my song- 

I am the boy of the mountain ! 
1846. 



ESSAYS 



ESSAYS 



COLERIDGE,* 



PART FIRST. 

" Coleridge and the Moral Tendency of his Writings,^^ 

is the title of an anonymous pamphlet of 118 pages, from 
the New York press, with an advertisement by Thos. H. 
Skinner, D. D., and dated July, 1844. After the Preface 
and Biographical Notice, comes the body of the work, in 
three parts. Part I. is devoted to a review of the Cole- 
ridgean Philosophy, and occupies twenty pages. Part II. is 
employed with the Philosopher's Theology, and comprises 
upwards of fifty pages ; and Part III. treats of his " Chris- 
tian Character," in fifteen pages. 

The name of Coleridge on the title page, and the en- 
dorsement of Dr. Skinner, have called to this pamphlet a 
degree of attention, to which it is entitled, neither as a fair 
exposition of the Coleridgean system, nor as a forcible 
assault on his peculiar doctrines. 

Having formed a design, some time since, to review some 
of the peculiar doctrines first prominently set forth in 
English, by Coleridge, particularly in their opposition to the 
common dogmas of the Scotch school, and in their theolo- 
gical bearings, I shall use this pamphlet as a stepping-stone, 
from which to mount to the accomplishment of that design. 

* See Memoir, page 97. 
22 



254 ESSAYS. 

My course shall be, first, to examine the character and po- 
sition of our anonymous reviewer, and then to look directly 
into the system of the philosopher himself; and if, in carry- 
ing out this plan, we may assume that the two great parties 
in this particular controversy, are here properly represented — 
if we may assume that the reviewer has set forth, in their 
just light, the strength of the objections to the system, even 
as on the other hand, the philosopher must be admitted to be 
an authoritative expounder and defender of his own doctrines 
— then it must be allowed, that we have before us at least all 
the requisite evidence for a full investigation and just deci- 
sion of the questions in dispute. 

In order to form a correct estimate of the accomplish- 
ment of any work, we must know the character and extent 
of the design of which it is the result. Our reviewer leaves 
us at no loss in respect to the particular end he proposed to 
himself in the work he undertook. The subject he under- 
took to discuss, as announced on his title-page, and in his 
standing caption throughout, is Coleridge and the Moral 
Tendency of his Writings. We are to expect a dissection, 
not of a hand or foot — not of some disconnected or unimport- 
ant members of a system, but a dissection of the Philosopher 
himself— o? his vital system — an examination of the essence 
and soul of Coleridgeanism, and of its bearings upon moral- 
ity. That such is the grand and professed design of our 
critic, is distinctly stated in his preface. He announces 
himself as " constrained by a sense of duty" " to exhibit the 
principles of the great theologian in his own phraseology," 
" to gather up and present, in a connected view, his frag- 
mentary writings and their moral tendency," and " to exhi- 
bit in their true character the writings of a man, who had 
sufficient intellect and imagination to entrance half the sen- 
sitive youths between eighteen and twenty-five, and through 
them to perpetuate his doctruies." In conformity with- this 
announcement, we have a formal division of the book into 
Biography, Philosophy, Theology, and Christian Character — 



ESSAYS. 255 

a division extensive enough to bring- up all, and more than all, 
that was necessary to fulfil the fair promise of the Preface. 

Such is the work as proposed and undertaken — we will 
now look at it as it has been executed. 

Three things produce an unfavourable impression at the 
first glance. 

In approaching a theme so high, of such acknowledged 
and profound difficulty and abstruseness, we are naturally 
solicitous in regard to the character of the guide, to whom 
we are to surrender the direction of our thoughts. It is 
true, the intrmsic value of the pages that follow, and the 
efficiency they should have in the conformation of our own 
convictions, are the same, whether they have proceeded 
from the pen of one unknown to fame, or have been elabo- 
rated in the deep thoughts of a Jonathan Edwards. But it 
is also true, that the name of an author on the back of his 
production, is both an endorsement of its accuracy, valuable 
in proportion to the measure of his just fame, and a pledge 
of his literary character for the honesty of its execution. 
And especially when an author, as in the present case, as- 
sumes the office of a witness testifying to the character of 
writings, which are supposed to be beyond the reach of the 
reader, and concerning which controversy is not silent — in 
such a case especially, do we demand, before we listen to 
the evidence upon which a judgment is to be rendered, that 
the witness assume the responsibility of visibility, and put 
himself in a position to be reached, if his testimony be false. 
Ingenuity has made even inspiration appear to assert doc- 
trines contradictory and absurd; and the assumption of a 
mask is no evidence that it is employed in the service of in- 
telligence and truth. When unworthy ends are to be reached 
by unworthy means ; when private malevolence is to be gra- 
tified by methods which their author cannot justify ; when 
prejudice and passion prompt to deeds, and conscience re- 
fuses to take the responsibility; disguise and concealment 
are the coward's allies. An open and fearless front is the 



256 



ESSAYS. 



characteristic of truth, and the mens conscia recti ; and the 
want of it betokens the weakness of conscious delinquency. 
At least, it does not look like the free and candid act of an 
honest inquirer after truth, to ask of the reader the decision 
of a question, involving the morality of the writings and 
personal character of a celebrated, and, by many, a revered 
author, on the evidence of dissevered and diversely culled 
passages, for the relevancy and fairness of which, he must 
rely mainly on the presumed honesty of an unknown writer. 

The awkwardness and disadvantage of his anonymous 
position, seem to have been appreciated by the writer of the 
pamphlet. A certifier to his respectability and intelligence 
was therefore sought; and Dr. Skinner, accordingly, in an 
advertisement signed by his name, has formally assured us, 
that "the author is competent to understand Coleridge as 
far as he is intelligible — has studied him with care — has 
analyzed him with clearness and thoroughness, and has 
given the public the results of his labours in a small and 
manageable compass." 

In the progress of these pages it will, perhaps, be more 
clear, whether the learned Doctor had sufficiently considered 
his terms, when he pronounced his friend ^^ competent to 
understand Coleridge ;^^ and in reference to the remainder 
of the certificate, perhaps we may be allowed to hope that 
the " results of his labours" will be found not to be altoge- 
ther " unmanageable.^^ 

Another source of the unfavourable impression of the first 
glance, is the motto with which our critic has thought proper 
to adorn the title-page of his production. 

Leaving sub judice the question of the moral tendency of 
his writings, Coleridge must be admitted, and I believe is 
universally admitted by those who have suitably studied his 
works, to have been a man of great intellectual power, of a 
sublime and commanding genius, and vast stores of abstruse 
learning. He has certainly thrown out, in sybilline leaves, 
the fragments of a philosophical system of such singular 



ESSAYS. 257 

vitality and power, that, even in their dispersion, they have 
preserved, like the Jews, their existence and integrity unim- 
paired. His doctrines have stood the Horatian test, and 
even in their disconnection, have manifested the living power 
of the disjecta membra PoetcB. Though scattered, like seed, 
from a careless hand, amid the foundations of the overgrown 
metaphysics and theoretical theology of the day, they have 
not been lost; but working upwards with an inherent 
energy, they begin already to pierce asunder the deep seat- 
ed structures that threatened to oppress them, and promise, 
ere long, like the conquering forest of Palenque, to overtop 
and bury the labours of preceding generations. 

As the father of a school of philosophy in the English lan- 
guage, which must be acknowledged to be one of the two 
great parties into which the thinkers of our age, the world 
over, are, for the most part, divided ; as a profound original 
thinker, and thorough master of expression, whose winged 
words have been recognized, and become germs in great 
souls, on both sides of the Atlantic, Coleridge has received 
the respect and admiration of his most powerful opposers. 
Even our anonymous reviewer, and his learned endorser, 
have admitted all that is here asserted. " We allow," says 
the author of the pamphlet, " Mr. Coleridge his full measure 
of fame as a scholar, a poet, a man of extensive knowledge, 
of unrivalled powers in conversation, and a master of the 
sublime and beautiful in style. He seems never at a loss for 
the most appropriate word in the expression of his thoughts, 
or the choicest imagery." (Page 101.) Dr. Skinner also 
remarks m his advertisement, (p. 6,) " There is great power 
in these writings, notwithstanding the subtle, fragmentary, 
and self-contradictory character of the philosophy that per- 
vades them. They are the productions of a man of uncommon 
and splendid genius, and are exceedingly suggestive of 
thought and reflection. Their costume is unique, and often 
exceedingly interesting and beautiful. They abound in 
22* 



258 ESSAYS. 

truly profound remarks, and in views of truth, admirably 
expressed and fortified." 

Such are the admissions of enemies — hear now the words 
of a friend. Says the lamented Dr. Marsh, the editor of the 
first American edition of the "Aids to Reflection," in his 
preface to that work : " Of his general claims to our regard, 
whether from exalted personal and moral worth, or from the 
magnificence of his intellectual powers, and the vast extent 
and variety of his accumulated stores of knowledge, I shall 
not venture to speak. If it be true, indeed, that a really 
great mind can be worthily commended only by those who 
both appreciate and comprehend its greatness, there are few 
who should undertake to estimate and set forth, in appropri- 
ate terms, the intellectual power and moral worth of Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge." 

Such is the man whom our critic proposes to review — such 
in natural gifts and acquired power — such in his written 
works and in the influence they have exerted — such in the 
reverential love of his friends, and the constrained admiration 
of literary opponents. 

In the reviewer of such an author, we look for the respect- 
ful bearing due to acknowledged eminence, and for a modest 
confidence in the power of truth, rather than a boastful show 
of assumed superiority. It was, therefore, with a feelmg 
allied to disgust, that we saw, on the features of our cham- 
pion, as he came forward to enter the lists with Coleridge, 
the smirk of conceit and the contemptuous smile of self-suffi- 
cient vanity, and read his motto, more w^orthy of the mind 
that suggested it, than of the object at which it was aimed — 
" Logic is the art of talking unintelligibly on things of which 
we are ignorant." The writer who introduces a professedly 
serious review of a great philosopher, with a piece sopho- 
moric impertinence such as that, manifests as little of appre- 
ciation or capacity for the work he has undertaken, as of 
good manners or good taste. 

But the unfavourable impression originated by the anony- 



ESSAYS. 259 

mous and conceited dogmatism of the title-page, is completed 
by an inspection of the table of contents, and the general 
structure of the work. The first and the last of the four 
divisions of the book are concerned with the Biography and 
the Christian character of the philosopher. 

If it be fair to assume that the spirit which selected the 
motto, suggested such topics as these as grounds of evidence 
in reference to the moral tendency of a system of philosophy, 
it is easy to anticipate the result. It would require, perhaps, 
more logical skill than often falls to the share of a single 
critic, to show satisfactorily the existence of such an inti- 
mate connection between a man's theoretical orthodoxy and 
his Christian character, as will make the latter a just expo- 
nent of the former. The devils believe — in a system meta- 
physical and theological — as sound, no doubt, as that of our 
reviewer himself, but it would be very unfair to infer that 
their moral character would compare as favourably with his. 
For aught that reason or history can show, Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge might have been, intellectually, the father of the 
only true philosophy, and practically the denier of every 
virtue he taught ; even as the truth may be seen and admired 
without being embraced. 

But the attempt to introduce personal history and private 
character, as evidence of theoretical error, betrays something 
more than mere dullness of logical perception. A course so 
unprecedented in literary controversy, looks like the effort of 
an interested judge, to establish, by whatever means, a pre- 
conceived judgment. "2>e mortuis nihil nisi bonum,^^ is the 
instinctive language of civilized humanity, applicable and 
authoritative, wherever high treason against the best interests 
of the race, has not outlawed its subject and disfranchised 
him of the dearest rights of his nature. It is only by placing 
Coleridge on a level with the vilest rebels against human 
society, or the infidel and blasphemous subverters of the 
Christian faith, that you may consistently hold up his name 
as a reproach, and drag from his grave an example of terror 
for evil doers to come. 



260 



ESSAYS. 



But it is not merely that the sanctity of the grave has been 
violated ; the authority of judging the heart is here assumed 
and pushed to a most unwarrantable extent. In regard to 
the character of Thomas Paine, no Christian writer need 
hesitate to pronounce a decision ; but it would argue no little 
presumption in the man who should dare to condemn, with 
equal positiveness, the religion of Samuel Johnson or of 
Henry Kirke White. No wise man, indeed, would place 
much value upon a sentence founded on all the evidence 
such cases afford ; and the advocate must be zealously bent 
upon maintaining a favourite cause, and but poorly supplied 
with evidence, who would give such a decision a prominent 
place in his argument. 

Such are the impressions we received from the first 
glance at this pamphlet — at its anonymous title-page — its 
impertinent motto, and the extraordinary and irrelevant array 
of its table of contents. 

We now proceed to look into the body of the work. 

After a careful and candid examination of our reviewer's 
representation of the Coleridgean Philosophy and its Moral 
Tendency, he seems to me to have greatly failed in at least 
six important particulars. The first of these I shall mention 
is the character of the evidence on which he suspends his 
decision. 

Although by no means a systematic or productive author, 
Coleridge has left abundant evidence of the doctrines he 
held, in works matured and published by himself. In his 
life tune, besides a vast amount of labour wasted on maga- 
zines and newspapers, he published his " Poems,'''' his " Aids 
to Reflection,^'' his " Biographia Liter aria,'''' his " Church 
and State,^^ his " Lay Sermons" " The Friend," and the 
" Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit."* In these works he 

* This work, although completed, and referred to in the " Aids 
to Re/lection," was not published until after the author's death. — 
Ed. 



ESSAYS. 2&1 

has developed at length, and as the occasion permitted, the 
great ideas of his philosophy ; and although he has no where 
attempted the coherence or the completeness of a system, 
the faithful student of his writings cannot fail to find, repro- 
duced in his own mind, the grand features of a system both 
coherent and complete. 

After the death of the philosopher in 1834, his nephew, 
Henry Nelson Coleridge, as authorized in his will, published 
two volumes of " Literary Remains,'''' which consisted main- 
ly of uncompleted Poems, skeleton lectures, scraps of criti- 
cism, and notes on the English Dramatic Poets. Two years 
afterwards, the same editor added two volumes more of " Re- 
mains," which were made up almost entirely from notes 
written by Coleridge on the margins of works of old English 
divines. 

These four volumes of "Remains," together with the 
works I have enumerated, as published under his own super- 
vision and in his lifetime, make up the entire materials 
within the reach of the American student, for the formation 
of an estimate of the philosopher and his system. 

Our reviewer having all these works before him, sits down 
to draw a portrait of the Coleridgean philosophy. In the 
progress of his work, he honours the " Aids to Reflection,'''' a 
profound and extensive work, embracing the very bones of 
Coleridgeanism, with — six quotations. " The Friend,^'' a 
still larger work, in three volumes, devoted to the " formation 
of fixed principles in Politics, Morals, and Religion," he has 
dismissed with three quotations. From the " Biographia 
Ldteraria" which reveals the heart both of the man Cole- 
ridge and of his philosophy, our reviewer culls a single 
extract. The " Lay Sermons,'''' the treatise on " Church 
and State,''^ and the " Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit," 
are not permitted to testify at all. In all we are furnished 
with ten distinct quotations from the various and extensive 
works of the philosopher, whilst fi-om his ^'Literary Re- 
mains" published by an editor after his death, we have one 



362 



ESSAYS. 



hundred and four! In this estimate we have reckoned 
only the formal extracts printed in a type smaller than the 
ordinary text, and on which the weight of the conclusions of 
the book depends: the various references and quotations in 
the text itself, will probably be found to divide themselves m 
about the same proportions. 

Without stopping to inquire mto the propriety of attempt- 
ing to determine the " moral tendency" of an author's writ- 
ings, on evidence not drawn from those writings, but from 
his private thoughts and private notes, we will proceed to 
examine the authority of these " notes" as exponents of our 
philosopher's faith, and to show how far they are capable of 
sustaining the cause entrusted to them by the reviewer. 

In the Preface to the first volume of the " Literary Re- 
mains," the editor thus characterizes them — 

" The materials were fragmentary in the extreme — sibyl- 
line leaves — notes of the Lecturer — memoranda of the Inves- 
tigator — outpourings of the solitary and self-communing stu- 
dent. The fear of the press was not in them. Numerous 
as they were, too, they came to light, or were communicated 
at different times, before and after the printing was com- 
menced ; and the dates, the occasions, and the references, in 
most instances, remained to be discovered or conjectured." 

And again, in his Preface to the third volume, the editor 
adds — 

" Although the author, in his will, contemplated the publi- 
cation of some, at least, of the numerous notes left by him on 
the margins and blank spaces of books and pamphlets, he 
most certainly wrote the notes themselves, without any pur- 
pose beyond that of delivering his mind of the thoughts and 
aspirations suggested by the text under perusal. His books, 
that is, any person's books, were to hun, whilst reading them, 
as dear friends ; he conversed with them as with their au- 
thors, praising, or censuring, or qualifying, as the open page 
seemed to give him cause. Thus employed, he had few 
reserves ; but poured forth, as in a confessional, all his mind 
upon every subject, not keeping back any doubt or conjec- 
ture, which, at the time and for the purpose, seemed worthy 



ESSAYS. 263 

of consideration. In probing another's heart, he laid his 
hand upon his own. He thought pious frauds the worst of 
all frauds, and the system of economizing truth, too near 
akin to the corruption of it, to be generally compatible with 
the Job-like integrity of a true Christian's conscience. Fur- 
ther, he distinguished so strongly, between that internal 
faith, which lies at the base of, and supports, the whole 
moral and religious being of man, and the belief, as histori- 
cally true, of the several incidents and relations, found, or 
supposed to be found, in the text of the Scripture, that he 
habitually exercised a liberty of criticism with respect to the 
latter, which will probably seem objectionable to many of his 
readers in this country." 

On another page the editor adds — 

" The reader is requested to observe the dates, which, in 
some instances, the editor has been able to affix to the notes 
with certainty. Most of those on Jeremy Taylor belong to 
the year 1810, and were especially designed for the perusal 
of Charles Lamb. Those on Field were written about 1814 ; 
on Hacket in 1818; on Donne in 1812 and 1829; on the 
Pilgrim's Progress in 1813; on Hooker and the Book of Com- 
mon Prayer between 1820 and 1830." 

In the notes themselves there is evidence of some of them 
being written as early as 1803, (vol. IV. 296.) 

We have, then, here four volumes of notes, written on the 
" margins and blank spaces" of the books he read during a 
space of at least twenty-seven years, by a "solitary, self-com- 
muning student," without any purpose beyond that of " deli- 
vering his own mind of the thoughts and aspirations suggested 
by the text under perusal," and not keeping back any " douht 
or conjecture, which for the time seemed worthy of considera- 
tion." These notes, thus unsuspectingly revealing the in- 
most movements of the temporary mind of the philosopher, 
and which may be considered of scarce the authority of so 
much of his conversation, during the long period through 
which they were penned — inasmuch as when he poured his 
divine rhapsodies into the ear of even a single auditor, he 
may be supposed to have been more on his guard, than when 



264 ESSAYS. 

alone, conversing with the great souls of the dead — these 
notes, thus expressive of " doubts" and " conjectures," and 
temporary impressions, and scarcely ever, confessedly, of 
settled conviction, by a dexterous fistajSaaii ftj a7.^o ysvoif 
are substituted for his deliberate and permanent doctrines, 
as unfolded in his own formal, complete, and published 
works ; and from their examination a verdict is made up in 
regard to the moral tendency of Coleridge's writings ! 

But an inspection of the notes themselves will make more 
evident the unfairness of such a procedure. 

In general, they are short, of such length as might be 
looked for on the margin of a printed book, and were written, 
for the most part, with entire reference to the sentiment of 
the text under perusal, and without any regard to their gene- 
ral bearing. In fact, their necessary brevity precluded the 
possibility of their being so guarded and qualified as to be 
incapable of perversion or misapplication ; and the intention 
that produced them, reaching only to the present relief of 
the overflowing mind of the reader, or, at farthest, to the 
amusement of a friend, did not suggest the necessity of cau- 
tion in the language selected. 

Moreover, thirty years in the history of a mind like that of 
Coleridge, delineated in its most secret movements through- 
out its long and toilsome progress, might be expected to 
present frequent temporary phases inconsistent with all the 
permanent convictions it ever had. 

"Coleridge's mind," says the editor in this connection, (vol. 
IV. p. 15,) " was a growing and accumulating mind to the 
last ; his whole life one of inquiry and progressive insight, 
and the dates of his opinions are therefore, in some cases, 
important, and in all, interesting." It is well known that, 
in his early years, he was a dreamer of a Utopian scheme of 
political reformation, as well as Unitarian in his theology. 
His important works, however, were not published until he 
became settled in the faith which he held and defended to 
the last day of his life. It would be a matter of interest to 



ESSAYS. 265 

show exactly what proportion of the evidence, upon which 
the Coleridgean philosophy is condemned in this pamphlet, 
was penned when the author advocated doctrines directly 
subversive of the faith which all his important works were 
written to uphold ; but such an investigation would lead too 
far for our present purpose. It will be sufficient for our pre- 
sent design, to demonstrate, from the internal evidence of 
the notes themselves, that they are not a worthy expression 
of the writer's settled opinions. 

In several instances, Coleridge himself refers to the notes 
in such a way, as implies something of his own estimate of 
their value. In the " Aids," (p. 258,) he says — 

" From such of my readers as give a thoughtful perusal to 
these works of Taylor, I dare anticipate a concurrence in 
the judgment which I here transcribe from the blank spaces 
at the end of my own copy ; and which, though twenty years 
have elapsed since it was written, / have never seen reason 
to recant or modify." 

Again, on page 212 of vol. III. of the "Literary Remains," 
at the end of a note on Jeremy Taylor, he adds, in 1824 — 

" For ' miraculous nature,' read ' supernattgral character,' 
and I can subscribe this pencil note, written so many years 
ago, even at the present time^ 

Again, in the same volume, (p. 367,) to a note written in 
1812, he adds in 1826— 

" I still agree with the preceding note." 

These and other similar formal certificates of his retaining 
an opinion expressed in a note so long previously penned, 
seem to imply that Coleridge neither himself admitted that 
all the notes he had written for so many years, were such as 
still expressed the convictions of his matured reflection ; nor 
supposed that they would be so received by others without 
his express endorsement. 

23 



266 ESSAYS. 

But, what is still more to the purpose, he not unfrequently 
modifies, and even recants, his own notes. 

Thus, in commenting on a text in Job, (vol. III. p. 131,) 
he says — 

" Though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in 
my flesh shall I see God, whom I shall behold for myself, and 
mine eyes shall see, and not another. Job xix. 26. 

" Though after my skin, must be rendered, ' according 
to,^ or ' as far as my skin is concerned.^ ' Though the flies 
and maggots in my ulcers have destroyed my skin, yet still 
in my flesh I shall see God as my Redeemer.^ 

"Now, St. Paul says that flesh and blood cannot inherit 
the kingdom of heaven, that is, the spiritual world. Besides, 
how is the passage, as commonly interpreted, consistent with 
the numerous expressions of doubt, and even of despondency, 
in Job's speeches'?" 

Again, in the same volume (p. 182) he repeats the same 
opinion — 

" The text, rightly rendered, is, perhaps, nothing to the 
purpose ; but may refer to the dire cutaneous disease with 
which Job was afflicted. It may be merely an expression of 
Job's confidence, of his being justified in the eyes of men, 
even in this life." 

Such is the doctrine of the notes twice expressed, and so 
far as I can discover, throughout the " Remains," never modi- 
fied by Coleridge. And yet, in his " Table Talk," (second 
edition, p. 80,) he afterwards says — 

"I now think, after many doubts, that the passage, 'J 
kiiow that my Redeemer liveth,^ &c., may fairly be taken as 
a burst of determination — a quasi prophecy. I know not 
how this can be, but, in spite of all my difficulties, this I 
know, that I shall be recompensed." 



Again, (page 358, vol. III.) after a long and argumenta- 
tive note on Taylor, dated 1810, he added in 1824 — 



ESSAYS. 267 

" In the preceding note I think I took Taylor's words in 
too literal a sense." 

In a note on Luther, he had said, (vol. IV. p. 23) — 

" Both in Paul and Luther there is one fearful blank, the 
wisdom or necessity of which I do not doubt, yet cannot help 
groping- and staring after, like one that stares in the dark ; 
and this is death. The law makes us afraid of death : what 
is death ? An unhappy life f Who does not feel the insuf- 
ficiency of this answer ] What analogy does immortal suf- 
fering bear to the only death that is known to usl" 

To this, in an appendix, was afterwards added — 

" Since I wrote the above, God has, I humbly trust, given 
me a clearer light as to the true nature of the death so often 
mentioned in the Scriptures." 

Again, (vol. III. p. 33,) to a previous comment on Luther, 
he adds in July, 1829 — 

" I should not have written the above note in my present 
state of light ; not that I find it false, but that it may have 
the effect of falsehood by not going deep enough." 

In the same manner, (vol. IV. p. 296,) after a criticism on 
John V. 16-19, dated 1803, he afterwards added — 

" The above was written many years ago ; I still think 
the remark plausible, though I should not now express myself 
so positively." 

One more instance to the same purpose. On the margin 
of Baxter's account of his trials, and the supports he received 
in answer to the prayers of his friends, Coleridge had writ- 
ten, (vol. IV. p. 91)~ 

" Strange that the common manuals of school logic should 
not have secured Baxter from the repeated blunder of ' cum 
hoc — ergo — propter hoc; but still more strange that his piety 



268 



ESSAYS. 



should not have revolted against degrading prayer into medi- 
cal quackery." 

On the 7th page following, he adds — 

" Alas, in how many respects does my lot resemble Bax- 
ter's ; but how much less have my bodily evils been, and yet 
how very much greater an impediment have I suffered them 
to be ! But, verily, Baxter's labours seem miracles of support- 
ing grace. Ought I not, then, to retract the note p. 80 1 — I 
waver." 

Such is a specimen of the manner in which Coleridge 
himself treats his own notes, freely confirming, modifying, or 
entirely rejecting their sentiments, and never appearing to 
feel himself bound to defend and maintain, or even to apolo- 
gize for recanting them. Not being written for publication, 
or designed to express the settled opmions of the writer, but 
merely to secure the suggestions of the moment for future 
use, or for the amusement of a friend ; they have never been 
presented, either by their author or editor, as authoritative 
exponents of the philosopher's doctrines, as maturely held 
and published by himself Moreover, the length of the 
period during which they were written, reaching back into 
the Unitarian and skeptical portion of his life, in connection 
with the fact, that the greater part of them being thrown 
away on the margins of other people's books, could never 
have been reviewed by their author ; renders the great mass 
of these "notes," whose dates are uncertain, but doubtful 
representations of his fixed and final opinions. 



RHYTHM. 

Why is it that acknowledged masters in the Poetic Art, 
to the common ear, produce a melody inferior to that of 
second rate performers '? 

INSTANCES. 

" Ominous conjecture on the whole success." 
" Celestial spirits in bondage : nor the abyss." 
" No inconvenient diet nor too light fare." 
" Things not revealed, which the invisible King." 
" So he with difficulty and labour hard 
Moved on ; with difficulty and labour he." 

MiLTOir. 



Or, 



Or, 



" All strength, all terror, single or in bands. 
That ever was put forth in personal form." 
" Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed." 
" How exquisitely the individual mind." 
" The divine Milton ! lore of different kind." 

WoKDSWORTH. 



" A doctor of physic rode with us along. 

There was none like him in this wide world's throng." 

" And yet he was but moderate in expense. 

He hoarded what he gained in the pestilence." 

" He hollow looked and sober, and ill fed. 

His uppermost short cloak was a bare thread." 

Chaucer, modernized. 

23* 



270 ESSAYS. 

In contrast with — 

« So pleased in youth, the towering Alps we try, 
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 
The eternal snows appear already past. 
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last. 
But these attained, we tremble to survey 
The growing labours of the lengthened way ; 
The increasing prospect tires our weary eyes. 
Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps arise." 



Pope. 



Or, 



" Like the gale that sighs along 

Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the (rrateful breath of song 

That once was heard in happier hours ; 
Filled with balm the gale sighs on, 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when the Bard of Love is gone, 

His memory lives in music's breath." 

MOOBE. 

It may be objected, with some force, to the above contrast, 
that the examples selected are from different kinds of poe- 
try, some of which require more of the sweetness of music 
in their rhythm, than others; and that the first specimens 
are deprived, by their fragmentary character, of the pro- 
jected momentum of a full current of rhythm, which so 
sweetly rolls and overflows through the latter ; nevertheless, 
the general fact is true, as exemplified, and the difficulty is 
not diminished by the following facts. 

1. High authority in criticism has pronounced this appa- 
rent roughness in the masters of poetry, to be real, and con- 



ESSAYS. 27-1 

demned it as faulty. Johnson says of Milton, " Some of his 
lines are remarkably defective." "The variety of pauses 
so much boasted by the lovers of blank verse, changes the 
measures of an English poet to the periods of a declaimer : 
and there are only a few skilful and happy readers of 
Milton, w^ho enable their audience to perceive where the 
lines end or begin." He also thinks that Milton, absorbed 
in the majesty of his theme, paid little attention to the music 
of his verse. Pope, also, the great master of "smooth" 
rhythm, taught the same doctrine. 

" But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong ; 
In the bright muse, though thousand charms conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire." 

'Tis plain, the poet agrees with the "tuneful fools," in 
considering " smoothness" the essential quality of the muse's 
voice. 

2. In opposition to all this, not a poet of a high order but 
has left indisputable evidence of his ability to produce as 
mellifluous strains as ever intoxicated mortal ears. Listen 
to this of Milton, after "the impetuous recoil and jarring 
sound" of his lines already quoted — 

" And ever against eating cares. 
Lap me in soft Ijydian airs ; 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 



272 



ESSAYS. 



With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
* Untwisting all the chords that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony !" 

And Coleridge, who betrayed the length of his ears by 
pronouncing " Milton not a picturesque, but a musical poet," 
and who has even perpetrated musical rudenesses equal to 
some of Milton's, whilom sang on this wise — 

" The night is chill, the forest bare : 

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak 1 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek. 
There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf— the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
On the topmost twig that looks up to the sky." 

A school-boy can correct Milton's roughnesses, and replace 
them with Pope-ish uniformity: why did not the "soul of 
harmony," that poured out the linked sweetness of such 
stanzas as those just quoted, develope itself always as 
" smoothly r 

Is it not probable that there are " dark inwoven sympho- 
nies" "hard to hear" in those rough lines, which Milton 
enjoyed, but which do not meet the common ear 1 (the said 
" ear" being no better judge of rhythm, than is uneducated, 
uncultivated taste, of the high efforts of any art.) 

* Milton says " all the chains," why did'nt he say " chords ?" 



273 

To come somewhat nearer the subject proposed, we pre- 
sent for solution Question No. 2. 

Why is it that poetry (generally supposed to be the lan- 
guage of wayward, unreasoning, disobedient passion,) has, 
in all ages and nations, encumbered itself with the formal- 
ities and fixities of metre, while staid, cool, reasoning prose 
remains comparatively untrammeled 1 

Ans. Metre is the shell of a living thing, having, to be 
sure, something of form and regularity externally, which 
form, however, is the growth of inward energy, and a sign 
not of imprisonment, but of free power, determining its own 
development ; while " cool prose" has not enough of vitality 
or freedom to produce much form of its own. An animal 
grows its form by the energy of an inward law; a stone 
receives its from the external and accidental necessity of 
its existence in space. Prose is, indeed, a semi-animal; 
and has general laws and corresponding form, inasmuch as 
it also is the outgrowth of humanity ; but poetry, besides all 
the attributes of prose, contains other and higher human 
elements, and other and more, and more peculiar corres- 
ponding features, that is to say, more form. 

It is not true, moreover, that prose has all the freedom, 
while the language of poetry works under the trammels of 
arbitrary laws. On the contrary, it is but the struggle of 
enslaved language to acquire freedom of rhythm, and to 
move with her elasticity, that produces the new sense of 
restraint. The supposed stiffness of poetry is but the awk- 
wardness of uncultivated, ungracefiil, prosaic language, 
attempting to dance to the free music of rhythm. 

Man's image and superscription is on all his works: 



274 ESSAYS. 

but no where has he been left so free, by the pliability of 
his materials, and the absence of pre-established fixities, as 
in the realm of animated (i. e. significant) sound. 

Here, if anywhere, he has propagated his own likeness, 
and projected the laws of his own being. 

An Idea is the spirit's most secret and peculiar property. 
While it remains in its native eternity, it owes no alle- 
giance to nature. Its origin, its power, and its entke 
being, are from another and a deeper source. It is only 
when it works outward towards a formal existence, and 
enters an earthly and misty atmosphere in the understand- 
ing, that it is refracted into visibility, and becomes, by 
virtue of its birth into time, in some measure subject to 
external law. Its subsequent incarnation and investment 
in language, is not so much an addition to its bondage, as 
a mere transfer of its relations from the internal to the 
external sense. The world of animated sound encircles 
the soul in close contact with, and only exterior to, the 
shadowy sphere of the understanding — even as the latter 
enspheres the central reason — and is in fact but the shadow 
of the spirit's activity, prolonged into the regions of the 
bodily senses, just as the conceptions of the understanding 
are shadows of the same activity in the region of the inner 
sense. Language is but conceptions crystallized and tan- 
gible ; something of the very essence and life of the soul, 
thrown out like the lightning, to become visible in the 
non-conducting darkness of sense, and perhaps to be bottled 
for permanent keeping. It is the nearest and most homo- 
geneous development of humanity — as is humanity itself a 
development of a spiritual essence. The artist, in words, 



ESSAYS. 275 

therefore, goes not for his materials out of his own shell, 
but, like the pearl oyster, or the silkworm, works out his 
beautiful productions from his own substance. Like the 
good man, in the inner depths of his spirit, the poet on the 
outer surface of the soul, "builds himself up a spiritual 
temple." Both produce the very materials of their work, 
and are therefore "creators," in a higher sense than the 
painter, or the sculptor, or any other artist in materials not 
his own. 

And herein is the advantage possessed by the poet ; that 
the sphere of his development is not the stubborn stone of 
the statuary or architect, nor the chemical and mechanical 
obstinacies of the painter, nor any thing else outside of 
himself, demanding the transmission of his idea through 
flesh and blood, to be at the mercy of nerves and chemical 
laws ; but in a more plastic and nearer material ; the very 
outgrowth and humanity of the spiritual element he would 
express. 

If, therefore, humanity hath any where fore-shadowed 
itself, and projected its image and constitution beyond itself, 
it hath done so in language : and if in language, then most 
especially in its most perfect and spiritual form of Poetry. 

The object of this Essay is to detect, if possible, in the 
very humanity of the poet, the law which determines his 
development, with especial reference to its operations in the 
production of rhythm. 

As we do not profess any special regard to logical method 
in this discourse, we shall endeavour to approach " the 
height of our small argument," as the old Mexicans climbed 
their pyramidal temple, by going round it. 



276 

Nature is God's Art, and man is God's fairest image on 
earth ; and human art is not " an imitation" or blind copy- 
ing of the works of the Great Master, but the free, original 
workmanship of the Image of the Invisible. 

The true pupil never servilely copies the works of his 
master, but strives to catch his spirit, and rejoices to recog- 
nize, in his own attempts, something that reminds him of 
the excellence he has loved, not as the evidence of success- 
ful theft, but as the proof of his own progress towards that 
excellence. 

Nature is divine art, and, as such, must be the study and 
admiration of him who can appreciate the perfect expression 
of infinite intelligence and beauty, and would thence learn 
fitly to embody the idea that waits for development within 
him. 

What are the attributes of Nature that constitute it Arf? 
or, in other words, wherein consists its fitness to develope 
and express the idea of the beautiful ] 

1. Boundless variety. — Nature abhors uniformity, as she 
does a vacuum, and for the same reason. Sameness is every 
where repudiated. Look at a world, with its oceans, con- 
tinents, islands, mountains, valleys, plains, forests, streams — 
sunshine and clouds, winter and summer, night and day, 
morning and evening. Look at a little piece of a world — a 
flower garden, no two species alike, no two flowers of the 
same species, no two leaves of the same flower, no two 
sides of the same leaf, no two tints of the same side ! Look 
at the variety of life, animal and vegetable, both diverging 
into infinite ramifications of diversity. Look at a single 
species — a congregation of men : no two alike, no two faces, 



ESSAYS. 277 

no two noses! — no two potatos alike, no two sides of the 
same potato— no two birds, no two feathers. You can't 
change your position, moreover, but the universe is changed 
to you — new aspects, new groups present themselves. The 
diamond won't keep its identity. The world is a kaleidos- 
cope — a very chameleon. Infinite power seems every where 
ceaselessly at work — every possibility taking its turn to 
enter into reality. The universe casts off its skin every 
moment, and comes forth a new thing — a new emission of 
moonshine every instant. 

In the midst of such a universe, the mind is not wearied, 
but delighted; not even satisfied, it goes in advance of the 
real into the possible, and the impossible too, to the farthest 
range of the conceivable; and even then labours inarticu- 
lately after what eye hath not seen nor heart conceived. 

2. A second element of the beautiful in the Art of the 
Creator, is unity. His universe, with its immeasurable 
variety, is a unit — as He sees it, and as genius struggles to 
grasp it. Each atom that floats in its own little atmosphere, 
is a whole world of its own. Each congregation of atoms 
in every organized thing, is a system. And so you may 
mount up till you reach a world as big as the earth, and 
behold it too is a unit, an atom, in a solar system ; which, 
in its turn, is one, in a wider starry system ; and where the 
magnificent and ever growing conception ends, is known 
only to him who can look down through the inverted pyra- 
mid of the universe, and see the harmonious play of the 
whole. What, though no two roses be alike, who does not 
see that all roses are alike T Though no two noses agree— 
24 



278 ESSAYS. 

yet who does not see in all noses, and all men, and all flesh, 
the embodiment of one animal life 1 

"Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same spirit, 
and there are diversities of operations, but it is the same 
God that worketh all in all." 

3. These two elements of unity and variety, so far from 
being incompatible conceptions, are, on the contrary, mu- 
tually necessary the one to the other. 



THE END. 



H 13 89^ 







^ .,. 






• l^f-' V 



- %,♦* - 













-S-^ . 








•^^ 



5>^"^ 



'^Mr.<i 



^9^ \ 



^ ^-^^^ V 







/,.•--•- 



v^^-**.^-^^ 






^0" 






'"o. -. 




4-9 .^ - • • 



....•, ,. ,. ..^/ /\ '-^R** **'"^ 















.«^ 



fi. V 












V >' 






*>i^ v^ 




-^-^0^ 



c^ ♦• 






.40 



«» -1 






'^^^ *^ir:^' .«*' 'q,. '^i?ii^'* .o'> V '-^ 







5^. 









^^6^ 

,-i<^ 









0^ 1^ * • 



?^ ^^ 






I'V ^^-^^* /Sftt "^^-^^^ flK: ^^-^^* :1 






? >^ ^^ 






? "J^" ■^.^ •.« 






6°*. -' 






^^^♦" .' 



'*,.♦*' .*J 



/*'j^M:S /'^''^X /^'}^&y 



«. *■ 









iTt?-* ^O'' <^^. *'^-' .-ft* 



^•j"^ .!.V-. "> 



V^"",.!^', %. 



•A ... 






%: 


















^^^^*'> ./^-Sk'X .^<»:eB.%' 









5* .' 






r 
.0* 



